THE 

GOLDEN  HAWK 


BY  EDITH  RICKERT 


•:it*    O.M.V 


(flnast 


Nn. 


Pacific  Coast  Headquarters 

20  Geary  St. 
San  Francisco,  -        California 


TH*     ^OLDEN   HAWK 


\ 


<«t^*5«?<S«?«S*5!^-«&<fr<'£<i«s<^$ 


V 

The  Golden  Hawk 


BY 

EDITH    RICKERT 

Author  of  "Folly"  and  "  The  Reaper" 


"  La  pichouneto  escaramoucho.'" —  MISTRAL. 
("  Much  Ado  about  Nothing.") 


NEW  YORK 
THE  BAKER  AND  TAYLOR  COMPANY 

1907 


Copyright,  1907,  by 
THE  BAKER  &  TAYLOR  COMPANY 


PUBLISHED,  APRIL,  1907 


The  Plimpton  Press  Norwood  Mass.  USA. 


Co 
MISTRAL 

IN    MEMORY    OF   THE    TIME    WHEN  HE  READ 

TO    ME    OF   MIREIO,   THIS   TALE,   WHICH 

IS    OVERBOLD    IN    COMING    FORTH 

FROM  THE  ROOM  IN  WHICH  HE 

AND    DAUDET  SANG  AND 

TALKED  TOGETHER 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  THE  UPWARD  FLIGHT 9 

II.  THE  WAY  OF  IT 19 

III.  THE  PERILOUS  LADDER  OF  LOVE      ....  30 

IV.  THE  SILVER  RING 40 

V.  THE  HEART  OF  MADELOUN 50 

VI.  THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  SIEGE 63 

VII.  THE  LETTER 69 

VIII.  THREE  TO  ONE 81 

IX.  THE  PROMISE 89 

X.  THE  BIRD  IN  THE  NET 98 

XI.  THE  RETURN  OF  THE  HAWK 108 

XII.  THE  KNOCKING  AT  THE  DOOR 116 

XIII.  THE  VIGIL 125 

XIV.  THE  FALCON  AND  THE  NIGHTINGALES    ...  131 
XV.  TRILLON  GROWS  RICH 140 

XVI.  THE  SECOND  RETURN  OF  TRILLON    ....  150 

XVII.  WHAT  MAY  BE  DONE  AT  A  DEJEUNER  .     .     .  157 

XVIII.  THE  THIRD  RETURN  OF  TRILLON     ....  165 

XIX.  THE  PIT  OF  ARTABAN 173 

XX.  ALL  FOR  A  CUP  OF  MILK 181 

XXI.  SETTLING  IN 188 

XXII.  THE  CLEARING  OF  THE  LAND 195 

XXIII.  How  THE  WORK  WENT  ON 201 

XXIV.  VISITORS  AT  THE  MAS 209 

XXV.  DISCOVERY 221 

XXVI.  THE  END  OF  THE  LONG  WHITE  ROAD  ...  228 

XXVII.  THE  DISPOSITION  OF  MADELOUN      ....  238 

vii 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XXVIII.  BREAKFAST  AT  THE  PRESBYTERY 245 

XXIX.  MADELOUN  DOUBTS 252 

XXX.  A  CURIOUS  END  TO  AN  ODD  CHAPTER       .     .  260 

XXXI.  THE  NEWS  THAT  RAMOUN  BROUGHT      .     .     .  267 

XXXII.  MADNESS  AT  THE  WINDMILL 275 

XXXIII.  LITTLE  GAMES  or  LOVE 286 

XXXIV.  THE  CLIFF  OF  BRIAZON 292 

XXXV.  THE  CHAPEL  OF  THE  MARIES 302 

XXXVI.  QUARRY  OR  WELL? 311 

XXXVII.  THE  EMPEROR  OF  THE  EAST 318 

XXXVIII.  THE  CONQUEST  OF  THE  CHURCH      ....  328 

XXXIX.  A  LITTLE  DRAMA  IN  THE  PLACE       ....  337 

XL.  BALIN-BALANT 345 


Vlll 


THE   GOLDEN   HAWK 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  UPWARD   FLIGHT 

IT  is  legend  that  the  Golden  Hawk  —  if  there  be  such 
a  bird  —  is  distinguished  among  his  kind  by  the  love 
that  drives  him  to  fly  straight  into  the  heart  of  the  sun. 
And  of  this  parable  the  meaning  is  that  so  royal  is  his  na- 
ture, it  pierces  at  once  to  the  quick  of  his  desire,  and  suffers 
no  mist,  no  tempest,  to  obscure  the  light  from  his  eyes. 
Among  men,  young  Trillon,  who  some  few  years  since  set 
one  small  corner  of  Provence  pretty  well  a-talking,  adopted 
this  emblem  as  his  own.  With  what  right  ?  You  shall  judge. 

He  began  his  upward  flight  one  spring  morning,  with 
a  bravura  that  rivalled  the  sun,  splendid  in  golden  brown 
corduroy  trousers  set  with  rows  of  silver-gilt  buttons, 
with  a  coat  of  the  same  flung  across  his  left  shoulder, 
with  a  gaudy-striped  flannel  shirt,  a  white  felt  hat  of 
many  angles,  a  ribbon,  a  sash,  a  scarf  of  saffron  hue,  and 
white  sandals  worked  with  ruddy  chestnut.  Moreover, 
he  himself  is  of  a  beautiful  brown,  golden-haired,  and 
with  eyes  that  readily  catch  fire  and  blaze. 

It  was  only  April  when  he  left  the  plains  where  mauve 

9 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

wistaria  drooped  heavily  against  the  yellow  house  walls, 
and  irises  lined  the  shady  garden-paths,  where  the  Judas- 
trees  already  had  their  purple  flecked  with  summer  dust, 
while  the  delicate  tamarisks  waved  their  feathers  of 
bluish  rose  in  the  cold  north  wind  from  the  Alps.  But 
when  he  had  left  beneath  his  feet  the  flower-fields,  the 
plane-trees,  the  olives,  and  the  cypresses,  and  begun  to 
climb  among  the  limestone  boulders,  he  came  into  the 
full  domain  of  the  sun,  and  it  seemed  midsummer.  But 
so  far  was  he  from  shrinking  that  he  bared  his  head  to 
the  tropic  heat,  lifted  his  hawk-nose  high  in  the  aroma 
of  rosemary  and  thyme,  and  faced  the  lord  of  all  living 
things,  eye  to  eye.  And  so  he  climbed  away  from  the 
habitations  of  men,  scrambling  among  rocks  red  or  silvery, 
wading  through  fragrant  herbs,  faint-blue  roumanin, 
lavender,  ferigoulo,  cytisus,  wild  rose,  and  box  and  gorse, 
until  all  the  plains  melted  into  a  purple  as  of  the  sea,  not 
so  much  for  great  height  as  for  the  mirage  that  touches 
with  splendour  this  south-land. 

All  the  way,  the  heart  of  Trillon  was  singing,  for  his 
world  was  not  far  in  its  twenties,  and  with  a  violin  slung 
across  his  shoulders  he  aped  the  troubadour. 

But  although  no  far  gleam  of  that  sweet  country  es- 
caped his  roving  eyes,  he  showed  ever  an  out-thrust  lip 
and  jaw  that  betokened  some  end  towards  which  he 
climbed  and  climbed  —  this  son  of  old  Trillon  of  the 
sausage-shop,  built  against  the  Porte  Barbentane,  hi  the 
shadow  of  the  Popes'  Castle  at  Avignon.  Pecaire!  he 
never  lacked  purpose  of  one  sort  or  another,  or  tongue  to 
tell  it,  or  means  to  bring  it  to  conclusion. 

10 


THE  UPWARD  FLIGHT 

And  so  he  climbed,  threading  his  way  in  and  out  among 
the  quarries;  and  the  mood  of  the  place  grew  so  within 
him  that  he  drew  forth  his  violin  and  picked  its  strings  as 
he  walked,  to  the  tune  of  old  lays  and  catches,  sometimes 
ribald,  sometimes  sweet.  Now  and  again  the  quarrymen 
looked  out  from  their  high  black  caverns,  cut  square 
like  Egyptian  temples,  to  pass  the  time  of  day,  with  rough 
chaffing  on  the  style  of  his  music. 

He  had  already  left  them  far  below  when,  with  a  sudden 
twist  hi  the  hill,  he  came  out  from  behind  a  wind-hewn 
pyramid  a  hundred  feet  high  or  more,  and  looked  across 
at  the  city  of  his  quest.  His  notes  ended  hi  a  sudden 
rasp.  He  dropped  upon  a  huddle  of  stones,  his  violin 
across  his  knee,  and  stared,  as  silent  and  as  unmoving  as 
the  rocks  themselves. 

It  lay  high  —  oh,  it  lay  high,  the  city  of  Castelar,  high 
above  the  narrow  green  valley  that  slit  the  two  mountain- 
ridges  —  this  was  the  thought  that  ran  through  his  head. 
But  high  as  they  had  built  it,  a  thousand  years  ago  and 
more,  those  ancient  lords  of  all  the  plain  between  the  Alps 
and  the  sea  and  the  two  rivers,  he  built  yet  higher  the 
castle  of  his  dreams,  that  was  after  to  be  founded  on  rock, 
and  carved  out  of  limestone,  when  the  will  to  achieve 
grew  strong  within  him.  This  day,  he  sat  and  looked  his 
fill  at  the  grey  ramparts  and  wind-beaten  hollow  dwellings, 
at  the  faded  yellow  tile-roofs,  and  the  shadowy  crooked 
streets  that  climb  up  to  the  church  spire;  and  following 
the  line  of  this  against  the  green  sward  of  the  castle  plateau, 
his  eyes  were  led  up  and  up  to  the  broken  walls  of  the 
donjon  and  the  pinnacles  of  ancient  watch-towers  that 

ii 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

seemed  to  pierce  the  wind-streaked  blue.  And  beyond 
the  rock  of  Castelar,  and  through  the  chinks  of  its  high 
chasms,  he  looked  into  impenetrable  distance  where  sky 
and  earth  and  sea  are  one,  and  the  colour  of  them  blended 
is  like  no  other  hue  in  the  world. 

From  this  place  he  may  have  seen  the  slip  of  green  that 
marks  the  garden  of  Auzias  Borel;  but  he  had  no  dimmest 
notion,  as  he  leaped  down  from  the  rocks,  and  followed 
the  highroad,  curving  and  doubling  on  its  steep  way 
round  the  valley,  that  he  was  walking  as  straight  as  might 
be  to  the  destruction  of  his  dream. 

Now  you  must  know  that  by  this  time  it  was  afternoon, 
and  on  the  edge  of  the  ramparts  of  Castelar,  under  an 
almond-tree,  three  girls,  snugly  sheltered  from  sun  and 
wind,  bent  over  their  sewing. 

A  sweeter  garden  or  one  more  strange  you  would  not 
readily  find.  Old  Auzias  Borel,  landlord  of  the  Cabro 
d'Or  —  the  Golden  Goat  of  legendary  fame  —  having 
the  serviceable  eye  of  a  Greek,  some  years  since  had 
acquired  the  house  next  to  his  own,  which  —  you  will 
scarcely  believe  me  —  was  left  much  as  it  stood  when 
Richelieu  had  battered  it  down,  and  hence  was  not  suitable 
to  live  in.  But  Borel  wanted  it  for  a  garden.  At  the 
foot  of  the  broken  steps,  whereon  grow  wall-flowers,  is 
the  old  courtyard  under  the  ramparts,  with  its  ancient 
well  and  stone  troughs;  and  this  is  set  out  with  plants  that 
love  damp  and  shade  and  cannot  endure  the  too  fierce 
alchemy  of  the  sun,  iris  and  lilac  and  black-berried  ivy, 
lilies  and  pansies,  and  some  kitchen  herbs.  In  one  corner, 
at  the  end  of  a  pergola  over-run  with  trumpet-flower,  is 

12 


THE   UPWARD  FLIGHT 

a  stone  bench  and  a  broken  statue  of  the  Virgin,  found 
when  the  garden  was  first  dug.  And  here,  before  this 
strange  pagan  Madonna  —  a  goddess  of  f ruitfulness  with 
bursting  cornucopia  instead  of  Child,  and  yet  a  Virgin  too, 
unmistakably  —  here  it  was  that  Madaleno  sometimes 
came  to  pray. 

Up  above,  on  the  cellar  roofs  of  the  old  mansion, 
Borel  coaxed  a  few  vegetables  and  fruits,  tomatoes  and 
cucumbers  and  a  few  gourds,  a  handful  of  peas  and  a 
fig-tree  on  the  southern  wall.  Here  and  there  among  the 
young  growing  things  are  set  up,  just  where  they  were 
found,  fragments  of  old  statues  and  other  chisel-work, 
made  many  centuries  ago  at  the  bidding  of  a  prince;  and 
the  outer  wall  where  the  three  girls  sat  sewing  is  pierced 
by  a  stout  almond-tree  that  thrives  upon  air  and  stone, 
and  scatters  its  ripe  black  shells  along  the  grass-paths. 

Madaleno  and  Nerto  and  Jano-Mario  were  pricking 
seams  and  talking  of  their  future,  as  girls  will  do.  Jano- 
Mario  always  parted  her  brown  hair  straight  and  plain 
under  the  white  muslin  and  dark  blue  fillet  of  Aries. 
Nerto  had  set  aside  the  ancient  fashion  and  caught  up 
her  dark  curls  into  puffs,  with  many  combs.  Madaleno, 
who  had  the  blackest  hair  of  all,  kept  to  the  pretty,  quaint 
cap,  but  tricked  it  out  with  silver  pins;  and  set  off  the  dusky 
cloud  beneath  it  with  silver  stars  in  her  ears,  and  the  clear- 
ness of  her  throat  by  an  enamel  butterfly  brought  all  the 
way  from  far  Marseilles. 

As  they  sat  behind  the  parapet  in  the  shade  of  the 
almond-tree,  the  tongue  of  Nerto  kept  time  with  the  needle 
of  Jano-Mario;  but  Madaleno  had  let  her  sewing  fall,  and 

13 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

leaned  with  crossed  arms  looking  beyond  the  valley. 
There  was  nothing  to  interest  her  in  the  few  olives  and 
mulberries  that  struggled  for  a  footing  between  the  lime- 
stone and  the  firs  in  the  strip  of  green  vale;  nor  did  she 
watch  the  dusty  flock  nibbling  its  way,  with  many  soft 
tinkles,  on  the  upland  pastures  beyond.  She  did  not 
turn  to  the  jagged  peaks  of  the  range  that  cut  off  the 
valley,  or  to  the  purple  plains  and  silvery  marshes  that 
might  carry  one's  thought  to  the  other  side  of  the  world. 
She  was  absorbed  in  the  long  white  curves  of  the  dusty 
highroad,  which  ended  in  the  gate  under  her  rampart, 
for  that  way  —  that  way  alone  —  must  her  fortune  come. 
And  although  she  was  but  seventeen,  she  thought  already 
that  it  tarried  long. 

So  she  watched,  dreaming  and  not  seeing  the  reality 
that  drew  near;  and  so  he  came,  awestruck  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life  by  the  silence  of  the  little  rock-city,  as  grey, 
as  numb  as  a  sleeper  that  shall  never  awake.  It  was 
perhaps  to  comfort  himself,  and  to  frighten  away  his  own 
fears,  that  he  picked  again  at  the  strings  of  his  violin,  and 
hummed  a  little  to  himself  as  he  passed  along.  In  this 
strain  he  came  under  the  rampart,  where  long  ago  pilgrims 
and  merchants  waited  until  the  great  Porte  should  be 
unbarred;  and  he  looked  up,  even  as  she,  stirred  from  her 
dreams  by  the  wandering  music,  leaned  over  down- 
wards. 

It  was  by  no  effort  of  the  will  that  his  desultory  air  took 
to  itself  the  words  of  an  old  song: 

"O  Magali,  ma  tant  amado." 

The  dark  eyes  smiled  down  at  him  not  unkindly;  and  I 

14 


THE  UPWARD  FLIGHT 

do  assure  you  they  had  need,  for  he  sang  well,  and  well 
enough. 

"The  stars  pale  before  thee,"  he  assured  her;  and  she, 
never  lacking  in  quickness  of  mockery,  played  her  part 
and  flung  at  him  the  old  words: 

"  I  care  no  more  for  thy  song  than  for  the  wind  among 
the  branches;  and  to  escape  thee  I  shall  jump  into  the  sea 
and  turn  eel  among  the  rocks." 

From  this,  they  had  it  back  and  forth,  now  in  the  way 
of  the  song,  now  of  their  own  wit,  in  a  kind  of  musical 
sparring  as  old  as  love  itself. 

"I  shall  turn  fisherman  and  net  thee." 

O  the  dimple  that  came  and  went  in  each  cheek,  as  she 
cooed  over  the  wall: 

"But  as  soon  as  thou  dost  throw  thy  nets,  I  shall  turn 
bird  and  fly  away  across  the  plains." 

"Leloun,  Madeloun,"  whispered  Nerto,  plucking  at 
her  sleeve;  but  Jano-Mario  sewed  on,  after  a  bare  glance 
at  the  sparkling  but  dusty  troubadour  in  the  road  below. 

But  when  he  vowed  that  he  would  turn  chasseur  and 
would  catch  the  precious  bird;  and  added,  of  his  own, 
with  a  sudden  leap  into  the  air  and  click  of  the  heels  to- 
gether, "For  I  am  the  hawk  of  Avignon,  and  the  falcon 
is  swift  and  sure,"  she  answered  with  gay  laughter: 

"Partridges  thou  mayst  catch  and  hedge-warblers;  but 
I  shall  be  safe  —  a  flower  among  the  grasses  of  the  prairie." 

"The  brook,"  says  he  — "I  shall  be  the  brook  that 
bathes  thy  feet." 

At  this  she  blushed  and  caught  up  her  sewing,  and 
wrought  three  bad  stitches;  but  compulsion  was  upon 

15 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

her.  She  kid  it  down  again  and  sang  under  her  breath, 
that  she  would  fly  away  in  a  cloud  to  the  ends  of  the  earth, 
nay,  should  he  pursue  her,  she  would  bury  herself  in  the 
sun. 

But  he  only  smiled  and  vowed  himself  her  loving  lizard 
that  should  lie  and  bask  and  bask  .  .  .  and  if  she  fled  to 
the  moon,  should  not  he  be  the  cloud  to  enfold  her? 

Again  she  laid  her  work  on  the  parapet,  and  looked 
down  upon  him  seriously:  "Who  are  you,  madman?" 

He  laughed:  "The  hawk  of  Avignon!"  Then  he 
tapped  his  foot  impatiently  against  the  base  of  the  wall: 
"Sing  —  sing!  Sing  to  the  end!" 

"Madeloun!  Leleto!"  whispered  Nerto;  and  Jano- 
Mario  suspended  her  thread. 

"I  shall  be  a  rose  in  the  thicket,"  she  chanted,  looking 
away  from  the  answer  that  must  come. 

"And  I  the  butterfly  to  kiss  thee"  —  he  picked  lightly 
at  his  violin. 

"I'll  sing  no  more  nonsense,"  she  vowed,  and  rose, 
turning  towards  the  house.  "I  have  no  liking  for 
strangers.  Go  away." 

" Cacaraca /"  he  crowed,  with  thrust-out  chin.  "I'm 
coming  up." 

" There  —  there !  Yonder! "  cried  the  three  in  a  breath, 
pointing  to  the  curve  in  the  rocky  path. 

But  he  laughed  as  he  cased  his  violin  and  flung  it  across 
his  shoulders;  and  gave  no  heed  to  their  warnings. 

With  the  swing  of  the  mountaineer,  he  set  one  foot  upon 
a  projecting  stone,  and  began  a  cat-like  climb  by  means 
of  chinks  and  ledges  and  ivy-stems;  and  so  quickly  was 

16 


THE   UPWARD  FLIGHT 

the  broken  rampart  mastered  that  he  sat,  shaking  with 
laughter,  astride  the  parapet,  before  a  little  frozen  group 
of  fear:  Jano-Mario  with  her  needle  in  mid-air,  Nerto 
with  her  face  buried  on  Madeloun's  shoulder,  and  she, 
the  bravest  of  them,  with  her  hands  at  her  mouth,  as  if 
to  choke  back  a  cry. 

"Sing  —  why  don't  you  sing?"  he  demanded,  beating 
one  gaily-sandalled  foot  against  the  earth,  while  the  other 
hung  in  mid-air. 

"  Santo  Mario  Saloume,  he  is  quite  mad,"  said  Jano-Mario 
slowly,  while  Madeloun  turned  her  face  away  in  silence. 

Deliberately  he  unpacked  again  his  shining  fiddle,  and 
this  time,  its  bow;  and  he  went  alone  through  the  song  to 
the  end.  Were  she  the  forest  oak,  himself  would  be  the 
ivy  —  and  here  Nerto,  familiar  as  was  the  song,  recovered 
herself  in  laughing  at  the  image.  Were  she  even  a  white 
nun  in  the  convent  of  St.  Biaise,  he  would  turn  father 
confessor.  Yes,  he  said,  if  he  found  her  in  her  winding- 
sheet,  dead  among  all  the  White  Sisters,  he  would  be  the 
very  earth,  and  in  the  end  she  should  be  his  own. 

In  the  silence  that  followed,  he  made  a  great  business 
of  packing  away  his  instrument.  Nerto  withdrew  to  the 
doorway  of  the  house,  and  Jano-Mario  folded  up  her 
work,  as  if  thinking  of  flight;  but  Madeloun  came  a  little 
forward,  one  hand  in  her  pink-and-white  frilled  apron, 
the  other  in  the  net  of  her  hair  that  was  blowing  —  or  she 
pretended  —  too  much  on  one  side  for  her  comfort. 

"Since  you  have  come,  stranger,"  said  she,  "what  do 
you  want  up  here?"  ("Up-here"  is  a  synonym  for 
Castelar,  in  the  phrase  of  the  country.) 

17 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

He  looked  at  her  steadily,  with  his  yellow  hawk-eyes. 
"I  came — "  said  he,  and  concluded:  "Never  mind  that 
now.  But,  let  me  tell  you,  what  I  want  I  get." 

O  the  gay  laughter  that  broke  from  her  lips! 

"It's  a  boastful  hawk.  One  might  think  he  had  come 
from  Marseilles.  But  if  you  won't  tell  —  good-day." 

"Not  so  fast,"  says  he.  "This  is  an  inn  by  the  look  of 
it.  Oh,  I  can  read  a  long  way  when  I  choose,  and  your 
letters  here  shine  down  the  valley.  .  .  .  Where  is  your 
father?" 

"At  the  olive-mill,  mending  the  broken  floor." 

"And  your  mother?" 

She  looked  a  little  frightened  as  she  said:  "Still  at  the 
washing-pool." 

"Good,  then,"  said  he.  "Bring  me  bread  and  white 
wine,  and  goat's  cheese." 

"What  you  want  you  get,"  she  quoted  him  gaily,  "as 
long  as  it's  only  goat's  cheese.  You  shall  have  it  under 
the  vine  by  the  door.  Come.  If  that  is  the  end  of  your 
wishing — " 

He  laughed :"  The  end  ?  It's  the  beginning.  We  shall 
see.  Now  I  am  hungry.  But  I  always  get  what  I  want." 


18 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  WAY  OF  IT 

As  he  followed  her  along  the  garden-path,  Nerto  danced 
away  like  a  sprite  before  them;  and  when  they  came  out 
into  the  little  paved  terrace,  still  overlooking  the  valley, 
where  a  vine  trailed  over  trellis-work  resting  upon  three 
stone  pillars,  and  where  pansies  and  fuchsias  and  gera- 
niums tinged  with  colour  the  yellowish  grey  walls,  Jano- 
Mario,  who  had  clumped  after  them  with  her  bundle  of 
sewing,  passed  on  and  out  into  the  village  street. 

And  when  Madaleno  called  after  the  girls  entreatingly, 
one  of  their  gay  voices  rang  back:  "Your  mother  is  com- 
ing up  —  look  over." 

However,  the  innkeeper's  daughter  was  bringing  out 
the  loaf  and  the  plate  of  cheese,  and  a  bottle  of  the  white 
wine  of  Paradou ;  and  it  was  not  until  she  had  set  these  on 
the  stone  table  before  her  strange  visitor,  that  she  crossed 
over  to  the  parapet,  and  picked  at  the  stones,  playing  with 
her  dimples  as  she  worked  out  the  problem  how  long 
remained  to  her  before  her  mother  arrived.  Allowing 
for  the  weight  of  the  basket  of  clothes,  steepness  of  road, 
and  shortness  of  breath,  the  young  huzzy  decided  that 

19 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

she  would  have  time  to  make  pretence  of  stitchery,  and 
settled  demurely  by  the  wall. 

But  the  self-styled  hawk  was  hungry,  and  none  of  her 
pretty  dark  side-glances  reached  their  aim.  He  was 
too  busy  tearing  great  crusts  of  bread,  and  working  over 
lumps  of  cheese;  he  had  no  more  mind  then  for  flirta- 
tion than  for  the  original  cause  that  had  brought  him 
thither. 

There  grew  a  straight  black  line  between  the  girl's 
heavy  brows,  and  her  underlip  pouted  itself  out,  red  as  a 
pomegranate.  She  let  her  work  fall  and  stared  through 
tears  at  the  toiling  figure  of  her  mother,  coming  inevitably, 
slowly,  and  fatefully  upwards.  It  was  not  each  day  of 
the  year  that  such  a  personable  stranger  was  to  be  had  at 
Castelar. 

She  stirred  with  a  cry  at  a  soft  flip  against  her  cheek; 
and  then  plucked  a  spray  of  pale  rosemary  —  had  the 
wretch  treasured  it  to  this  end?  —  from  the  folds  of  her 
apron. 

She  turned  and  perceived  a  gleam  of  eyes  and  teeth 
between  two  enfolding  hands  —  she  had  no  vision  for 
more.  But,  in  simple  fact,  I  must  tell  you  that  the  loaf 
had  vanished  and  there  was  a  cavern  like  a  quarry  in  the 
cheese  —  the  hawk  could  eat  like  the  mighty  man  of 
Gath  —  and  that  the  wine-bottle  under  a  reckless  elbow- 
thrust  was  toppling  over  the  edge  of  the  table  and  at  that 
very  moment  smashed  on  the  flags. 

"Hour  says  he.    "So  it  is.    And  after?" 

"And  after,"  says  she,  all  at  once  as  pert  as  a  little 
queen- wren  on  the  hedges,  " — after,  one  pays." 

20 


THE  WAY  OF  IT 

He  laughed  in  his  fashion  —  one  short,  sharp  "Hah!" 
Then  he  said:  "Good.  But  I  have  got  what  I  wanted. 
And  I  have  no  money.  What  then?" 

She  stared  at  him,  incredulous.  His  plumage  was  so 
fine! 

"You  have  had  a  song  —  and  such  a  song.  .  .  .  And 
you  ask  for  pay?  What  more  do  you  want?" 

She  lost  her  shyness  in  the  offended  dignity  of  the 
hostess.  "You  have  eaten  and  you  cannot  pay?"  she 
demanded,  with  a  shrill  note. 

"Sant  Trefume,  you  mistake  me!  I  ask,  what  is  it 
you  want  ?  I  can  pay,  though  not  in  francs.  One  some- 
times pays  with  a  kiss — ?"  The  laughter  of  his  face 
and  voice  abated  as  he  leaned  towards  her. 

For  all  her  sudden  redness  she  did  not  retreat;  she  bent 
forward  to  meet  him  and  gave  him  a  painful  blow  on  the 
nearer  cheek.  "Or  two?"  he  continued  calmly,  without 
moving,  though  on  the  one  side  his  face  flamed  up  under 
the  bronze. 

She  had  a  moment's  turning  towards  the  foot  of  the 
hill:  "O  mother  —  mother!  Come  fast  —  come  fast!" 

He  drew  from  his  pocket  a  gay  knife,  with  a  handle  of 
pearl- matrix  set  in  brass- work,  very  fine  and  costly,  no 
doubt. 

Her  brown  face  paled  with  the  shooting  fear  that  he 
was  mad  —  she  shrank  towards  a  corner  and  put  up  a 
useless  defence  of  hands:  "What  would  you  do?" 

"Payment  you  must  have,  if  not  of  one  sort,  then  of 
another."  He  handed  her  a  button  from  his  sleeve. 
"And  since  you  prefer  silver  to  song  and  kisses,  there  you 

21 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

have  it,  and  gilt  into  the  bargain  —  three  times  the  value 
of  your  excellent  wine.     Keep  it  —  keep  it.     It's  for  you." 

She  laid  it  on  the  table,  faltering:  "But  if  you  are  so 
rich  —  and  have  no  money  — ?" 

"Dau!  That's -the  tale.  Want  to  hear  it?  Come, 
sit  on  my  knee  —  What,  no  ?  Well,  on  the  table  then, 
or  on  the  flags,  or  where  the  devil  you  please.  .  .  .  Tron- 
de-goi,  it's  a  shy  piece!"  He  stared  at  her,  with  a  kind 
of  surprised  resentment. 

She  fluttered  away  from  him  further  in  the  lee  of  the 
table;  but  alas  —  the  Saints-of-the-Sea  protect  us!  —  her 
mother  had  stopped  with  two  gossips  in  the  shade  of  the 
Cross  at  the  parting  of  the  ways  below. 

"Pecaire!"  quoth  Trillon.  "I  believe  you're  afraid  of 
me.  And  yet  no  young  lamb  ever  did  less  damage  than 
myself  ...  to  be  sure  I  am  still  at  the  beginning.  .  .  . 
But  you  ask  about  my  money  ?  It  is  all  on  my  back  — 
la,  la!  One  week  now  —  one  week  has  passed  .since  they 
buried  my  father.  Good  old  man  —  Sant  Micoulau  rest 
his  soul!  There  was  no  love  lost  between  us,  for  he  was 
always  trying  to  crush  the  serpent  under  his  foot,  my 
child  —  the  serpent  that  you  see  before  you.  ...  It  is 
long  enough  now  since  he  was  able  of  a  fine  morning,  when 
the  mistral  was  quiet,  to  toddle  under  the  ramparts  with 
his  journal,  or  to  take  his  absinthe  at  his  little  cafe  between 
the  Porte  de  Villeneuve  and  the  river.  Do  you  see  him, 
my  pretty  one?  It  amuses  me  that  you  should  see  him. 
Like  me?  No  more  than  yourself.  A  little  lean  brown 
man  in  a  buttoned-up  coat  —  quite  respectable,  as  be- 
came the  owner  of  the  finest  small  sausage-shop  in  the 

22 


THE  WAY  OF  IT 

city  of  Avignon.  Go  there  and  you  will  still  read  his 
name  in  gilt  letters  on  the  front,  TRILLON  —  that's  it 
-just  plain  TRILLON,  and  no  more.  That  was 
enough.  Everybody  knows  what  it  stands  for.  There 
are  no  other  sausages  to  be  had  as  good.  .  .  .  And  I  am 
his  son." 

He  inflated  his  chest,  but  whether  his  pride  lay  in  his 
parent  or  in  the  sausages,  she  could  not  for  the  moment 
tell.  She  was  to  learn  that  it  lay  in  neither. 

"He  had  two  friends,"  continued  Trillon,  musingly. 
"  You  must  know  them,  as  they  had  to  do  with  me.  Old 
Mercadou,  the  violin-maker  —  they  call  him  the  '  Scourge 
of  the  Prussians,'  for  the  part  he  played  at  Sedan  —  he 
always  spoke  in  my  defence;  and  Pons,  the  barber,  who 
trains  poodles  for  the  stage,  and  has  always  two  or  three 
following  him  about  —  he  was  the  traitor,  no  doubt. 
And  yet  it  was  he  who  told  me  my  mother  was  a  Trin- 
quetaille." 

"A  Trinquetaille ? "  repeated  Madeloun,  wondering. 

"None  other.  A  branch  of  the  great  line  that  built 
your  castle  up  here.  A  noble  breed  —  but  I  have  no 
pride  of  race.  .  .  .  She  died  young,  and  all  I  remember 
of  her  is,  she  was  tall  and  had  beautiful  light  hair  —  like 
my  own,  I  must  suppose  —  and  when  I  was  in  the  way, 
she  knocked  me  aside  with  her  foot.  .  .  .  Likewise  she 
treated  my  father,  when  he  made  that  same  mistake.  .  .  . 
That  was  the  old  blood  —  what  would  you  ?  And  now 
I  have  come  to  see  where  they  built  their  nest,  for  it  is  I 
that  shall  build  higher  yet." 

"Isso!"  she  sniffed  at  him. 

23 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

"It  is  true  that  I  have  no  money,"  he  continued  pen- 
sively, "yet  my  father  died  a  man  of  means  —  with  a  long 
purse,  and  garden-land  outside  the  gates,  and  a  bank- 
book. You  might  not  have  thought  it  if  you  had  seen 
him  with  Mercadou  in  his  shabby  velveteens  and  Pons  in 
his  smock,  but  my  poor  father  was  a  man  of  low  tastes; 
and  as  for  myself,  a  Trinquetaille  can  mix  with  the  scum, 
and  come  forth  the  more  sparkling."  He  glanced  down 
lovingly  at  his  own  achievements  in  the  way  of  brightness. 

"I  cannot  think,  monsieur,"  said  she,  who  had  never 
heard  of  Beatrice  of  Messina,  "why  you  will  talk  so  long, 
unless  it  be  for  pleasure  in  your  own  voice." 

"It  is  for  your  pleasure,  mademoiselle,"  said  he,  with  a 
disarming  smile,  "and  for  your  remembrance  after." 

She  shrugged  to  disclaim  all  interest,  but  he  was  en- 
couraged to  proceed:  "My  father's  money  was  safe  — 
as  safe  as  a  thief  in  Tarascon  Castle.  He  left  it  all  away 
from  me,  my  pretty  one  —  and  I  was  his  only  child." 

"To  whom  then?"    Her  interest  crept  out. 

"Listen"  —  he  grew  more  confidential,  perhaps  with 
wine  so  early  in  the  afternoon  —  "I  have  an  aunt  who  is 
the  best  woman  in  the  world.  She  undertook  the  care  of 
my  soul  when  my  mother  joined  the  other  saints;  and  she 
also  took  charge  of  the  sausage-shop.  They  tell  me  — 
the  old  men  —  that  she  was  once  good-looking,  even  for 
an  Arle*sienne;  I  may  suppose  her  to  have  been  something 
like  yourself,  mademoiselle.  I  have  heard  old  Pons  rave 
until  his  poodles  yawned,  over  the  face  of  her  one  Easter 
morning,  when  she  went  to  church  in  a  lavender  silk  with 
pendants  in  her  ears  and  other  fal-lals.  I  take  it  Pons 

24 


THE  WAY  OF  IT 

would  have  married  her,  but  for  her  pride  in  the  sausage- 
shop,  if  only  he  had  had  a  suspicion  of  family  to  his  name. 
But  the  simple  truth  is,  his  mother  died  in  the  Hdtel  Dieu 
at  Cavaioun,  and  there  was  no  knowing  who  else  had 
been  responsible  for  him  until  the  barber  Pons  picked 
him  out  of  the  gutter  and  gave  him  a  name.  When  we 
talked  of  the  Trinquetailles,  he  used  to  bring  up  the 
Baron  Pons  of  Les  Baux;  but  the  relationship  was  not 
clear,  mademoiselle  —  not  clear  enough  for  my  aunt. 
Moreover,  Pons  is  a  gross  fat  man,  and  blood  tells  in  the 
figure  —  hein?" 

He  interrupted  himself,  waiting  for  her  approval;  and 
she  went  off  into  pretty  peals  of  laughter. 

"Well"  —  he  laughed  with  her  for  an  instant  —  "it  was 
my  aunt  who  came  in  for  my  father's  money,  and  his  gar- 
dens and  his  sausage-shop.  There,  you  have  my  little  tale." 

"But  you  had  vexed  him  how?"  was  her  rebuke. 

"Mademoiselle,  I  had  vexed  him  and  perplexed  him  all 
my  life ;  and  neither  of  us  could  tell  why.  But  all  that  I 
said  and  all  that  I  did,  and  all  that  I  failed  to  say  or  do, 
was  related  by  Pons  to  my  aunt,  and  by  her  to  my  father; 
and  in  the  end,  the  old  man  was  displeased.  ...  It  was 
the  will  of  Heaven,  no  doubt.  .  .  .  She  scrubbed  and 
scoured,  I  grant  it,  and  she  put  aside  many  sous  — 
women's  business  all  that.  And  so,  she  wanted  me  to 
store  up  the  letters  of  the  alphabet  and  the  dates  of  battles 
and  ways  of  adding  up  numbers.  But  I  never  thought 
that  a  man's  affair,  so  I  learned  as  little  as  I  could.  Some- 
times I  ran  away  from  school,  and  sunned  myself  with 
the  lizards;  and  I  had  rare  fine  games  of  bowls  with 

25 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

gypsies  under  the  ramparts  —  on  the  far  side,  believe  you, 
from  where  my  father  walked  up  and  down  with  his 
journal.  I  could  beat  them  all,  and  whenever  they  had 
any  money,  it  was  I  that  got  it  in  the  end  —  honestly,  you 
know — honestly;  but  in  the  spending  of  it,  they  had  back 
all  I  won.  Money?  It  is  an  encumbrance.  But  they 
respected  me,  for  I  could  swim  both  the  Durance  and  the 
Rhone,  not  once,  but  as  often  as  they  liked,  even  in  the 
spring  freshets  .  .  .  and  the  Rhone  is  swift,  mademoiselle. 
And  I  can  climb  —  good  God,  how  I  can  climb !  Your 
castle  here?  I  do  not  suppose  there  is  a  place  in  the 
world  that  I  cannot  climb.  I  have  the  foot  of  a  cat.  I 
crawled  one  day  into  one  of  the  upper  barracks  in  the 
castle  of  the  Popes  —  never  mind  how.  They  carried 
me  on  their  shoulders  —  the  garrison  there.  To  be  sure, 
I  might  have  gone  in  by  the  gate,  but  that's  not  to  the 
point.  I  like  always  the  way  of  the  wall  and  the  rope  and 
the  ladder.  It  is  my  nature." 

"And  can  you  not  fly  then?"  she  spoke  up  with  some 
scorn. 

"Say  the  word,"  he  retorted  eagerly.  "Say  the  word 
and  you  shall  see  what  I  can  do.  I  do  not  suppose  there 
is  anything"  —  he  stopped  abruptly.  "I  weary  you?" 
he  asked,  in  a  singularly  gentle  tone. 

She  shook  her  head  softly  as  she  leaned  over  the  wall. 
Her  mother  was  coming  up  now;  and  there  was  already  a 
stab  of  regret  in  the  girl's  heart.  Oh,  the  alchemy  of  the 
Southern  sun!  It  was  but  half  an  hour  that  they  had 
been  together;  and  in  ten  minutes  or  twenty  they  would 
forever  part  —  ai  —  ai  —  ail 

26 


THE  WAY  OF  IT 

"More  of  flying  —  hereafter,"  says  he.  "But  I  did 
not  tell  you,  mademoiselle,  that  my  father  left  me  exactly 
five  hundred  francs.  When  the  notary  read  the  will  — 
he  made  a  will,  mind  you,  like  all  respectable  folk  — 
when  he  read,  'He  that  cannot  keep  money  must  go  and 
earn  for  himself,'  I  looked  at  my  aunt  in  her  crapes,  with 
her  handkerchief  over  her  eyes,  and  I  swore  an  oath  — 
with  which  I  will  not  offend  your  ears,  mademoiselle — " 

"O,  la,  la,"  she  breathed,  with  uplifted  eyebrows. 

"If  I  have  conquered  the  Rhone  in  his  fury,  little  one, 
what  worse  remains?  What  cannot  I  do?" 

"I  could  say  —  I  could  tell  a  thing  or  so,  braggart!" 
says  she,  with  a  sidelong  laugh. 

"What  then?  What  then?"  He  forgets  his  tale, 
fiercely  snatching  at  the  challenge;  but  her  mother  is  now 
panting  up  the  last  curve,  and  she  wants  the  end  of  the 
story. 

"Your  five  hundred  francs?"  she  whispers. 

"I  went  out  into  the  Place  Pie  —  you  know  the  Place 
Pie  at  Avignon  ?  —  and  there  out  of  the  blindness  of  the 
sun  and  my  anger,  I  found  myself  standing  by  the  Tour 
St.  Jean  just  under  the  old  coat-of-arms  —  if  you  know 
what  such  a  thing  is.  It  was  Mercadou  told  me  once, 
when  he  was  boasting  of  the  great  deeds  that  had  been 
done  at  Avignon.  You  might  have  thought  he  had  been 
there,  the  blow-gun." 

She  put  her  hands  to  her  mouth  to  check  another  ripple 
of  laughter,  lest  her  mother  hear  and  end  the  fun  sooner 
than  need  be. 

"But  never  mind  what  it  is  or  why  it  is  there.  It's 

27 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

a  carving  of  two  crossed  keys  —  the  keys  of  the  Popes, 
that  unlock  the  world  —  and  these  are  in  the  claws  of 
two  hawks,  the  falcons  of  Avignon.  So  I  said  to  myself: 
'Here's  the  one,  and  when  I  find  my  mate — '  "  Accord- 
ing to  convention,  her  eyes  fell. 

He  continued  cheerfully:  "And  afterwards,  when  the 
time  comes,  we  can  see  about  unlocking  the  world.  .  .  . 
But  the  five  hundred  francs  —  I  spent  what  I  could  on 
my  back,  as  you  see;  and  I  bought  my  violin,  for  up  to 
now  I  had  only  an  old  thing  that  Mercadou  taught  me  to 
make  years  ago.  This  is  one  of  his  best.  And  I  can  sing 
—  hein  ?  You  do  not  often  hear  such  singing.  It  was 
Mercadou  who  taught  me  all  I  know.  You  shall  hear 
more  some  day,  harvest  airs  and  noels,  and  the  music  of 
all  the  birds  —  wait!" 

She  looked  at  him,  wistful,  fascinated,  perhaps  the  more 
so  in  that  she  had  heard  her  mother  enter  the  room  behind 
them,  and  her  ears  had  been  awake  to  the  creak  of  the 
heavy  basket  as  it  was  lifted  from  the  head  and  set  on 
the  table. 

"When  I  had  done  my  best  with  the  money,  I  scattered 
what  was  left  among  the  gypsies  and  ragamuffins;  they 
had  a  feast  that  day  outside  Avignon.  I  could  not  keep 
it,  for  I  felt  that  there  was  a  curse  upon  it,  given  grudg- 
ingly; and  I  could  always  get  more  when  I  wanted  it. 
Meantime,  there  are  the  buttons,  which  are  useful  —  as 
to-day.  I  took  the  first  diligence  that  passed  through  the 
town  gate;  and  I  sang  myself  here  to  see  the  castle  of  my 
fathers.  And  that's  the  way  of  it  .  .  ." 

"The  way  of  what,  my  fine  gentleman?"  said  a  harsh 

28 


THE  WAY  OF  IT 

voice  from  the  door;  and  the  gay  Trillon  looked  over  his 
shoulder  at  the  unfriendly  face  of  the  innkeeper's  wife. 

Doubtless  he  would  have  found  an  adequate  reply;  but 
Madeloun's  light  wits  flew  up  like  a  cloud  of  butterflies 
to  obscure  the  real  issue. 

"The  way  to  the  castle,  my  mother.    The  gentleman 

has  had  food  and  wine  and  paid  for  it"  —  she  slipped  the 

button  into  the  pocket  of  her  coquettishly  frilled  apron 

-  "and  now  he  wants  to  see  the  castle.    Am  I  to  take 

him  there?" 

There  was  calculation  in  Mere  Borel's  heavy  eyes  as  she 
looked  her  guest  over.  Rich  was  his  appearance  and 
eccentric;  the  girl  was  pretty  enough  and  was  widely 
known  to  have  a  gift  of  attracting  francs;  the  castle  stood 
high,  open  to  the  winds  of  heaven  and  the  eyes  of  the 
village.  Small  was  the  risk,  and  great  was  the  chance 
of  gain.  ..."  Eh,  well,  Madeloun,"  was  her  grumbling 
assent. 

A  moment  in  the  dark  room,  screened  and  curtained 
on  all  sides  against  the  sun,  Trillon  fumbled  and  lost 
himself;  then  he  found  two  guiding  hands,  and  kept  them 
fast,  for  all  their  pretty  fluttering: 

"The  way  of  it,  eh,  Madeloun?  So  that  was  the  way 
of  it  all  along?  What  did  I  tell  you  in  the  beginning? 
Now  we  shall  see." 


29 


CHAPTER  in 

THE  PERILOUS  LADDER  OF  LOVE 

THEY  walked  soberly  enough  out  into  the  white  glare 
of  sunlight  and  up  the  overshadowed  rocky  pathway 
between  tall  houses,  that  is  called  the  Rue  des  Trois  Rois, 
at  Castelar.  It  was  necessary  to  use  discretion,  for  while 
nine  tenths  of  the  dwellings  were  ruined  in  siege  nearly 
three  hundred  years  ago,  and  have  stood  empty  ever 
since,  their  pillared  windows  gaping  to  the  winds,  their 
wells  and  courts  and  carved  chimneys  harbouring  only 
nettles,  from  behind  the  other  few,  where  glass  still  shines, 
black  eyes  were  peering  and  tongues  would  be  babbling 
presently  of  feather-headed  Madeloun  and  the  eccentric 
stranger. 

The  way  grew  rougher,  with  stones  that  twisted  the 
ankle,  and  briars  that  pricked  the  arm,  so  that  it  seemed 
one  required  help  in  the  climbing.  Again,  there  were 
landmarks  that  needed  urgent  attention,  in  the  world  of 
ultramarine  and  violet  that  fell  away  beneath  the  feet. 
And  whenever  the  nice  and  delicate  balance  in  which  the 
girl  moved  was  threatened  by  some  obstacle  in  the  path, 
you  may  be  sure  that  Trillon  played  his  part.  With  all 

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THE  PERILOUS  LADDER  OF  LOVE 

this,  there  were  sighs  that  melted  into  laughter,  and 
plaintive  scraps  of  song  illuminated  by  dark  teasing 
glances  —  it  was  not  for  nothing  that  there  was  Greek 
blood  in  her  veins  —  this  little  Madelouneto ! 

But  there  was  scanty  speech  between  the  two  until  they 
came  to  the  grassy  bank  that  stands  on  the  site  of  the 
ancient  outworks  of  the  keep.  There  the  girl  raised  her 
finger  and  pointed  to  the  steps,  with  their  dizzy  handrail 
shaking  in  the  wind — the  steps  cut  out  of  rock  that  seem 
to  lead  up  into  the  sky  and  then  break  off  on  the  top  of 
a  crumbling  wall. 

"The  lords  of  the  world  climbed  high,"  laughed  Trillon. 
"Think  you  they  rode  their  horses  up  this  pretty  stair- 
way?" He  laid  his  hand  on  the  rail,  which  bent  and 
rattled  hi  his  clutch. 

All  at  once  Madeloun  was  close  at  his  elbow:  "I  am 
afraid  —  I  cannot  go  up  further.  I  am  always  dizzy 
here.  Listen  to  the  wind  —  there  is  never  a  day  when  it 
is  still,  about  these  steps.  I  have  a  fear  that  some  time 
the  mistral  will  seize  me  and  carry  me  across  the  plain  and 
fling  me  into  the  sea.  Let  us  go  down.  I  am  afraid!" 

But  his  arm  barred  her  way:  "Nonsense!  You  shall 
climb  to  the  roof  of  the  world  with  me.  Where  I  go  thou 
shalt  go,  even  if  I  have  to  carry  thee." 

"Don't  thou  me,"  she  says,  trying  to  shrink  away. 

He  disregarded  her  complaint.  "Shall  I  carry  thee 
up?" 

She  perceived  that  he  was  ready  to  fulfil  his  threat  and 
would  have  retreated;  but  he  was  on  the  one  side  and 
sheer  precipice  on  the  other. 

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THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

"Then  go  on  first,"  said  he,  "and  if  thou  art  dizzy,  I 
can  catch  thee  —  so." 

With  that  she  flung  aside  what  fear  she  had  or  seemed 
to  have,  and  scrambled  up  the  great  blocks  of  stone, 
clinging  ever  to  the  rail  and  averting  her  eyes  from 
the  valley  below. 

But  at  the  top  she  drew  back  that  he  might  pass,  and 
pointed  the  way  to  a  great  arch  that  towered  above  their 
heads.  "Look  —  it  is  all  beneath  you  there  —  all  the 
world  as  far  as  the  sea.  And  you  have  only  to  set  one  foot 
forward  and  —  look  then!  I  cannot." 

He  glanced  at  her  shrewdly  as  if  to  measure  the  depth 
of  her  fear,  cocked  his  hat  against  the  wind,  pursed  his 
lips  into  a  whistle,  and  with  more  than  wonted  spring  in 
his  step  crossed  the  patch  of  turf  between  them  and  the 
arch.  But  when  he  was  near  enough  to  look  through,  a 
change  passed  over  his  face  that  was  not  merely  the  shadow 
of  the  great  wall;  and  he  fell  back  a  pace  and  stood  mo- 
tionless. And  she,  who  had  followed  timidly,  yet  not  far 
behind,  heard  his  murmured  words:  "My  God!  The 
lords  of  the  world  built  high!" 

Then,  aware  of  her  approach,  he  assumed  an  elab- 
orately careless  posture,  leaning  against  the  wind-swept, 
rain-eaten  wall,  where  a  single  step  would  have  deprived 
him,  in  the  fraction  of  a  second,  of  all  human  semblance. 

Perhaps  he  was  thinking  of  this,  for  he  said:  "It  would 
be  a  feast  for  my  brothers  of  the  mountain."  And  to  the 
girl:  "Did  you  ever  see  a  Capoun-Fh?" 

But  he  did  not  turn  as  he  spoke,  and  his  words  went  away 
with  the  wind.  He  muttered  again,  but  rather  to  him- 

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THE  PERILOUS  LADDER  OF  LOVE 

self  than  to  her:  "Eh,  well,  it  is  a  chimney  that  I  stand  in, 
the  shell  of  a  fireplace  where  my  fathers  once  gathered 
about  the  hearth  and  planned  how  they  should  win  their 
battles." 

This  also  failed  to  reach  the  girl's  attention.  "Ai! 
ail"  she  said.  "Now  he  is  poised,  he  is  balanced  against 
the  wind,  but  if  his  hat  should  be  lifted,  and  he  should 
give  a  sudden  jerk  .  .  .  and  often  the  stones  fall  without 
reason  .  .  .  only  wings  could  save  him  .  .  ."  She 
stretched  out  a  tremulous  hand  to  his  nearer  sleeve. 

But  he  was  not  aware  of  the  slight  touch,  for  his  eyes 
and  his  mind  had  settled  into  equipoise  and  were  absorbed 
in  what  lay  below.  Downward  went  his  gaze,  past  the 
chaos  of  limestone  boulders  and  cliff  fantastically  carved 
into  gargoyles  and  corbels  of  ludicrous  and  monstrous 
humanity  —  down  and  down,  until  he  drew  in  his  breath. 
It  was  not  perhaps  so  far  in  hundreds  of  metres,  but  it  was 
desperately  sheer  and  under-eaten,  and  at  the  bottom  was 
a  great  debris  of  broken  rocks.  Still  down  and  afield 
went  his  glance,  past  the  olive- groves  descending  the 
slopes  of  red  earth,  past  the  brief  uplift  of  the  foot-hills, 
bronzed  with  fir-woods  that  seemed  like  low  scrub  from 
that  height;  onward  he  gazed,  past  a  pale  strip  of  meadow, 
the  red  and  grey  blur  of  a  village,  past  marshes  with  shal- 
low lagoons  silvery  in  the  blaze  of  the  sun.  There,  after 
the  bronze  and  green  and  red  and  gold  —  there  began  the 
blue:  folded  veils  of  azure  and  violet  and  ultramarine, 
passing  away,  line  upon  line,  here  and  there  empurpled 
with  heat  or  with  shadow,  with  —  who  could  say  what  ? 
—  until  the  sky  fell  and  the  sea  rose  up  to  the  meeting, 

33 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

and  the  land  embraced  both  or  was  absorbed,  and 
nothing  remained  but  blue  —  the  measureless  blue  of 
unending  space  —  the  blue  where  all  things  meet  and  are 
one. 

So  deep,  so  breathless  was  the  muse  of  Trillon  that 
Madeloun's  fear  grew  into  panic.  She  dared  not  leave 
him  —  dared  not  rouse  him  —  dared  not  speak  or  move 
to  stir  him  from  that  dizzy  poise.  But  it  may  be  that  he 
felt  the  terror  in  her  gaze,  for  he  turned  slowly  and  looked 
up  at  her;  and  immediately  she  held  out  two  brown  hands 
to  guide  him  on  the  one  step  back  to  safety. 

When  they  stood  together,  he  would  not  release  what 
she  had  so  freely  offered;  but  made  pretence  of  holding 
her  still  unconsciously,  while  he  turned  again  to  the  plain, 
and  said  as  one  who  mused:  "I  can  see  the  towers  of 
Avignon  —  a  golden  blotch  against  the  white  ribbon  of 
the  Rhone—" 

She  laughed  and  ceased  her  struggle  for  freedom: 
"But,  monsieur — " 

He  turned  his  yellow  eyes  upon  her  and  then  —  terrible 
man!  —  he  read  her  little  thought  as  plainly  as  if  it  had 
been  spoken.  He  continued  with  a  twinkle  that  she  could 
not  face:  "And  against  the  wall,  in  the  shadow  of  the  gate, 
I  see  the  charcuterie,  with  my  old  aunt  by  the  window 
stringing  up  sausages  all  day  long,  pecairel  while  I  am 
here  on  the  top  of  the  world,  ready  to  pick  and  choose 
among  its  good  things.  I  can  see  — " 

She  suddenly  wrenched  herself  loose,  and  stepped 
further  back  into  safety. 

"You  can  see  Avignon  and  the  Rhone,"  said  she  saucily, 

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THE  PERILOUS  LADDER  OF  LOVE 

"if  you  come  quite  to  the  other  side  of  the  hill  and  look 
to  the  north." 

But  she  was  a  stupid  Madeloun,  thinking  to  bring  down 
the  hawk  with  such  a  poisoned  arrow;  he  fluttered  as  high 
as  ever:  "I  can  see  what  I  please  when  I  will,  and  that 
without  eyes,  as  I  saw  Avignon,  a  moment  since;  but  now 
all  I  see  is  what  is  nearest  at  hand." 

"Oh!  oh!  and  no!"  She  fled  to  the  shelter  of  a  great 
escarpment  that  would  hide  them  both  from  the  eyes  of 
the  village.  It  is  said  that  Saracens  built  it  once  as  a 
vantage-point  for  hurling  Greek  fire  into  the  chateau;  but 
it  served  admirably  for  love-making. 

She  flashed  defiance  upon  him  from  her  shadow;  and 
at  first  he  stood  apart  and  laughed  at  her  pretty  challenge. 
But  he  held  his  hat  in  his  hand;  and  while  the  great  wind 
beat  upon  him,  and  tossed  his  hair  in  his  eyes,  and  made 
the  blood  sing  in  his  veins,  the  sun  was  at  another  work,  the 
Mage  of  Provence,  Alchemist  of  Alchemists  ...  I  am 
afraid  that  all  in  a  moment  Trillon's  head  was  turned 
altogether. 

He  laughed,  but  she  would  not  laugh  with  him  —  in- 
stead, leaned  against  the  wall,  picking  at  her  apron,  very 
angry. 

"Sarnipabieune!"  —  he  swore  as  he  ate,  mightily. 
"I  am  a  fool!  If  the  hawk  mates  with  the  wren,  what 
becomes  of  the  little  hedge-picker  —  hein?" 

"Go  away  —  go  away!"  She  struck  out  at  him  in  a 
helpless  rage.  "I  will  have  nothing  to  do  with  you." 

He  came  close  and  pinned  her  shoulders  to  the  rock: 
"Dost  thou  speak  like  that  to  a  Trinquetaille,  thou  hedge- 

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THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

bird,  thou  sparrowlet?  Oh,  I  will  thou  thee  as  much  as 
I  please  for  a  reason  that  I  have!  But  look  and  consider: 
here  I  come  with  my  head  stuffed  full  of  tales  of  my 
fathers,  for  I  have  read  books,  though  I  loved  not  learning, 
and  I  have  heard  many  things  from  Mercadou  and  others 
—  old  Pons  himself.  ...  So  here  I  come  to  see  the  place 
from  which  the  falcons  flew  down  upon  their  prey.  I 
passed  the  little  stream  and  the  ford  where  they  fought 
the  Battle  of  the  Thirteens  with  the  lord  of  Orange,  and 
won  Barbegal,  and  I  saw  the  Pass  of  Orgue  where  they  fell 
upon  the  Marseilles  merchants  and  lightened  their  beasts 
of  much  Indian  wealth  —  chut !  I  came  up  here  to  take 
my  first  steps  in  the  winning  of  the  world  .  .  .  and  if  all 
I  catch  is  a  pretty  hedge-sparrow  ..." 

"And  you  have  not  got  that!"  she  defied  him,  although 
his  hands  still  pinned  her  to  the  rock.  But  she  made  no 
move  to  resist.  Indeed,  hampered  as  she  was,  she  found 
means  to  lift  her  apron  to  her  mouth  and  to  bite  at  its 
hem.  How  far  she  was  frightened  and  how  far  foolish 
in  her  bravado  I  cannot  say. 

Trillon,  although  he  looked  at  her,  seemed  rather  to 
stare  through  her  and  into  the  rock;  and  for  the  moment 
he  forgot  to  laugh:  "Every  man  has  his  thoughts,  I 
suppose ;  and  the  thing  in  my  mind  is  now,  whether  to  let 
you  go,  and  climb  on  my  way  to  the  adventures  that  my 
lucky-star  shall  point  out  to  me,  or  whether — " 

At  this,  she  dropped  her  apron  and  met  his  glance. 

Still  he  hesitated:  "I  have  a  lucky-star,  as  you  will 
know  some  day.  It  may  bring  me  land  —  wealth  — 
honours"  —  but  here  bright  eyes  and  wavering  dimples 

36 


THE  PERILOUS  LADDER  OF  LOVE 

won  the  day.  "It  shall  bring  me  first  the  innkeeper's 
daughter!" 

As  swiftly  as  ever  pounced  peregrine,  he  caught  her  in 
his  arms;  and  in  three  strides  he  went  boldly  across  the 
open,  where  they  might  be  seen  by  any  chance  eyes  turned 
upwards  from  the  village;  and  he  paused  at  the  head  of 
the  rough-hewn  steps. 

"What  say  you  —  fiein ?" 

But  she  lay  still  in  a  terror  that  was  half  ecstasy. 

The  wind  leapt  upon  them  with  a  shout,  lifted  Trillon's 
hat  and  sent  it  whirling  and  bounding  down  the  cliff. 

But  he  laughed  as  he  stood  in  the  full  glare  of  the  sun- 
light ;  and  his  yellow  hair  blew  across  her  cheek  as  he  bent 
and  kissed  her,  and  stifled  her  faint  cry  suddenly  against 
his  shoulder. 

Then,  with  the  wind  swaying  him,  weighted  as  he  was, 
he  stepped  down,  not  too  carefully,  to  the  next  great  block, 
and  kissed  her  again.  "  It  was  a  long  journey  up,"  said  he. 

On  the  third,  she  was  ready  for  him  and  turned  her 
face  away  —  but  not  quickly  enough.  Yet,  though  she 
shrank,  she  clung  fast,  with  the  sickening  fear  that  he 
was  mad  and  would  suddenly  throw  her  to  the  winds  — 
that  she  might  fall  and  roll  and  crash  downwards.  .  .  . 

She  held  her  breath  with  the  horrible  sinking  that  comes 
of  such  imagination;  yet  on  the  fifth  step  she  wondered 
whether,  instead,  he  would  leap  and  still  hold  her  fast; 
and  she  cared  less. 

On  the  sixth,  her  mood  changed;  and  she  laughed  up 
at  him  to  see  how  his  tufts  of  yellow  hair  were  ruffled 
into  the  semblance  of  feathers. 

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THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

And  on  the  seventh,  he  it  was  who  laughed  because  she 
had  lost  all  fear. 

On  the  eighth,  "How  long  will  you  remember?"  he 
asked. 

On  the  ninth,  he  paused  until  she  whispered,  "Not 
long."  Then  he:  "I  make  sure." 

The  tenth  step  was  a  landing  —  a  resting-place  in  the 
difficult  up  and  down.  Here  he  balanced  himself  as  well 
as  he  could,  though  never  without  giving  a  little  to  the 
force  of  the  wind ;  and  standing  near  the  edge,  threatened 
to  hurl  her  away.  But  she  would  not  trouble  now  to 
look  at  the  peril  below  —  gazed  only  at  him  and  said: 
"Throw  me  —  throw  me  —  if  you  can!" 

It  seemed  that  they  must  have  heard  his  laughter  in 
the  village  below.  "Is  the  sparrowlet  a  hawk  after  all? 
And  shall  we  fly  to  the  sun  together?" 

But  she:  "We're  going"  —  it  was  the  eleventh  step 
—  "down." 

And  he  chanted,  as  he  marked  the  twelfth  stage:  "The 
perilous  ladder  of  love!" 

The  sun  was  in  his  eyes  as  he  counted  thirteen  and 
fourteen;  and  the  wind  beat  a  desperate  tattoo  —  fifteen, 
sixteen  and  seventeen — so  that  he  was  all  but  over- 
balanced. ...  O  the  ecstasy  of  eighteen  and  nineteen! 
But  at  twenty  she  stirred  and  heightened  the  peril. 

As  suddenly  he  gave  himself  to  the  wind,  and  the  steps 
flew  upwards  past  them,  marked  but  not  counted.  It 
was  a  long,  long  flight,  but  he  reached  the  grass,  set  her 
on  her  feet,  and  steadied  her  from  falling. 

"After?"  says  he. 

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THE  PERILOUS  LADDER  OF  LOVE 

And  after  was  a  shower  of  tears,  which  he  was  too  wise 
to  interrupt  until  they  had  spent  their  force.  But  when 
the  frilled  apron  was  wet  and  still,  he  pulled  it  away. 
"Come,"  says  he.  "We  are  betrothed.  Make  the  best 
of  it.  It's  time  I  met  your  father." 

She  let  him  draw  her  timid  hand  through  his  arm;  and 
so  with  the  keen  wind  blowing  her  black  hair  from  under 
her  cap  against  his  that  she  had  laughed  to  find  like 
hawk's  feathers,  with  the  sun  blinding  their  eyes  and 
streaming  like  white-hot  metal  against  their  unprotected 
faces,  they  came  together  down  the  broken  slopes  and 
the  jagged  pathway. 

It  is  the  sun,  believe  me  if  you  will,  that  rules  the  chil- 
dren of  the  South;  and  they  knew  themselves  in  his  power. 

Once  Trillon  looked  back:  "It  was  a  long  climb  and  I 
meant  to  go  far.  But  the  coming  down  was  better. 
With  a  ladder  like  that  —  even  with  Death  below  —  hoi, 
it's  good  to  live  in  the  day!" 


39 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  SILVER  RING 

AuziAS  BOREL  had  finished  mending  the  floor  of  the 
olive-mill  and  come  in  for  his  four  o'clock  lunch.  As  he 
sat  down  with  his  wife  in  the  cool,  dark  living-room,  she 
told  him  what  had  happened  while  he  was  away. 

"But  it's  a  long  time  now,"  says  he  rather  anxiously, 
biting  the  ends  of  his  white  moustache.  "I'll  go  up  and 
see—" 

"You'll  do  nothing  of  the  sort,"  snapped  the  woman. 
"You'll  give  your  mind  to  your  bread  and  cheese.  It 
may  be  a  matter  of  three  or  four  francs  to  us." 

He  sighed  and  crossed  the  room  to  look  through  the 
screen-door,  up  the  hill.  There  was  an  ease  and  grace 
of  movement  in  his  short  slim  figure  that  showed  his 
Greek  ancestry,  as  did  the  well-chiselled  nose  and  quick- 
glancing  eyes.  In  striking  contrast  was  all  this  to  the 
woman  whose  sombre,  passionate  face,  rough-featured 
and  coarse  of  texture,  was  her  heritage  from  some  tribe 
of  Ligurian  savages.  She  was  altogether  uncomely, 
except  in  the  unfathomable  splendour  of  her  dark  eyes 
—  eyes  in  which  one  seemed  to  look  backward  into  the 

40 


THE  SILVER  RING 

mysteries  of  the  beginning  of  life  —  eyes  full  of  the  trouble 
and  passion  and  sorrow  of  strange  races,  Celt  and  Iberian 
and  older  nameless  folk  whose  history  stretched  back 
into  the  kingdom  of  the  beasts.  And  these  eyes  were 
her  sole  outward  and  visible  gift  to  her  daughter.  God 
help  the  girl  if,  in  addition  to  the  light  and  fantastic 
ways  of  her  Phocian  father,  she  was  burdened  as  well 
with  the  passionate  soul  of  the  elder  Madeloun,  her  mother! 

Auzias  still  lingered  at  the  door,  shifting  his  feet  boy- 
ishly in  a  sort  of  dance.  "If"  —  said  he,  "  if  I  thought  — " 

"If  you  thought,"  she  said,  and  rattled  the  dishes  she 
was  setting  on  the  bare  table.  "If  you  thought,  you 
would  be  rich,  Borel." 

"If  I  were  rich,"  he  grumbled,  though  he  laughed  a 
little  too,  "I  would  sell  you  and  buy  a  wife  without  a 
tongue.  But  I'm  thinking  of  Leleto  — " 

"  Verai ?"  she  sneered.  "It's  nothing  else  all  day  long. 
One  would  suppose  you  had  never  a  daughter  before. 
Why  don't  you  talk  of  Nanoun  with  her  lubberly  market- 
gardener  at  Beaucaire,  and  Rouseto  up  the  hill  here  with 
her  five  children  and  a  husband  who  basks  like  a  lizard, 
and  eats  the  olives  that  you  provide.  And  you  with  a 
son  to  follow  you!  But  it  was  always  daughters  — 
daughters  —  to  your  mind,  and  with  this  last  one  worst 
of  all  .  .  ." 

She  stopped  breathless,  her  hand  at  her  side. 

"Be  quiet,"  said  Auzias  quite  needlessly,  and  brand- 
ished his  knife  —  they  were  at  the  table  now  —  in  a  way 
that  looked  alarming,  but  was  only  a  flourish  preparatory 
to  cutting  the  cheese.  "Be  quiet,  will  you?  Women 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

are  always  talking  —  there's  no  peace  for  a  man  in  the 
world.  If  my  mind  runs  on  Madelounet,  it  is  only  that 
I  am  thinking  how  she  may  be  provided  for  when  we  are 
called  away." 

She  shrugged:  "We  have  talked  of  this  before." 

"We  cannot  talk  of  it  too  much,"  said  he,  taking  a 
handful  of  ripe  black  olives.  "And  besides,  we  must 
know  the  mind  of  the  girl." 

"Her  mind?"  said  the  mother,  with  her  mouth  full  of 
bread.  "What  should  a  girl  of  seventeen  think  on  such 
matters?" 

"That,"  said  Borel  calmly,  "is  what  I  propose  to  find 
out."  Then  his  thoughts  turned  and  he  asked:  "What 
has  Jduse  been  doing  to-day?  I  have  not  seen  him." 

But  she  was  slower  to  change  the  subject:  "Girls  — 
girls!  At  her  age  they're  all  as  much  alike  as  a  flock  of 
lambs." 

"  But  the  shepherd  knows  each  one,  if  he  has  a  hundred," 
said  he.  "Now,  I  myself,  when  I  was  young  .  .  ." 

She  gave  him  no  chance:  "Set  a  wolf  among  them,  and 
you'd  find  little  difference  in  their  jumping." 

"Well,  to  my  mind,"  said  the  father,  playing  with  the 
heap  of  his  olive-stones,  "girls  spoil  with  long  keeping. 
I'd  like  to  see  her  with  a  husband  of  her  own,  and  of 
grandchildren  there  cannot  be  too  many- 

"Not  when  you  put  the  bread  into  their  mouths?"  she 
asked  pertinently,  but  he  waved  the  point  aside. 

"Look,  now,  Borel,  be  reasonable,"  she  deigned  to 
argue  with  him.  "We've  talked  this  over  before.  We 
make  a  living  out  of  the  inn,  with  the  olives  and  the  silk- 

42 


THE  SILVER  RING 

worms;  but  when  we  die  there's  J6use  and  his  wife,  with 
their  four;  and  the  little  that's  over  and  above 
will  be  needed  for  Nanoun's  rent  and  to  keep  Rouseto 
and  her  brood  out  of  the  almshouse.  Your  daughters 
have  the  gift  of  marrying  badly,  Borel;  and  nobody  could 
say  that  J6use  chose  much  better.  Now,  what's  for 
Madeloun?" 

"They  could  spare  her  a  little,  and  share  what  there 
is,"  he  persisted  stubbornly. 

She  grew  shrill  with  expostulation:  "And  where  is  she 
to  find  a  husband  that  will  take  her  penniless?  In  the 
ditch?  What  do  you  want?  Besides,  Father  Gou- 
goulin  — " 

Borel  spread  out  his  palms  to  show  his  perfect  compre- 
hension. In  the  end  as  in  the  beginning,  he  had  told 
himself,  it  was  the  priest  who  wanted  to  make  the  girl  into 
a  nun.  He  uttered  his  protest  as  best  he  could,  as  he  had 
frequently  uttered  it  before:  "The  holy  life  is  all  very  well 
in  its  way;  but,  to  my  thinking,  it  comes  unnatural  in  our 
family.  You  can't  turn  a  live  hare  into  a  tombstone." 

His  wife  had  been  brushing  the  crumbs  from  the  table 
into  her  apron.  She  now  flung  a  great  lump  of  bread  to 
each  of  the  waiting  dogs,  and  went  to  scatter  her  gather- 
ings among  the  chickens. 

At  the  door  she  met  Madeloun  and  the  stranger,  still 
blinking  from  the  sunlight. 

Borel  was  stuffing  his  pipe  in  the  far  corner  of  the  room ; 
and  Madeloun  went  at  once  to  sit  on  the  bench  beside 
him,  with  the  instinct,  no  doubt,  to  seek  shelter  and 
protection. 

43 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

Trillon  waited  until  the  older  woman  came  back,  wiping 
her  mouth  with  her  toil-hardened  hand.  She  looked  for 
him  to  lay  silver  francs  upon  the  table;  but  instead  he 
faced  her,  his  feet  well  apart,  his  hands  at  his  sides,  his 
chin  high  —  I  will  not  say  that  the  attitude  was  not  per- 
haps intentionally  exaggerated. 

"Madame,"  said  he,  "and  monsieur,  I  do  myself  the 
honour  to  ask  for  your  daughter's  hand." 

"Oh!"  cried  Madeloun,  as  if  she  had  not  expected  this, 
and  buried  her  face  against  her  father's  arm. 

Mere  Borel  looked  at  the  stranger,  slow  to  comprehend, 
until  her  husband's  chuckle  stirred  her  to  anger.  Auzias 
had  laid  down  his  pipe,  and  shook  and  twinkled  with 
amusement.  He  was  the  first  to  speak.  "Eh,  well? 
What  of  it?"  he  asked. 

Trillon  laughed  back  at  him:  "You  take  it  wisely  — 
and  from  a  man  without  a  hat  too." 

"One  must  take  things  as  they  come,"  said  Auzias 
philosophically,  as  he  lighted  his  pipe.  Then  feeling  the 
girl's  tears  through  his  shirt-sleeves,  he  turned  to  her: 
"Eh,  well,  what  would  you  have?  They  all  weep,  I 
suppose.  You  have  been  quick  in  finding  a  man,  Leleto." 

She  murmured  something  that  he  could  not  hear; 
and  he  bent  his  head  to  listen. 

But  now  Mere  Borel  had  understood,  and  she  came 
forward  to  Trillon  with  her  question:  "Will  monsieur 
kindly  explain  himself?" 

He  was  aware  of  some  disappointment.  It  seemed  then 
as  if,  contrary  to  all  possibilities,  the  thing  would  be  so 
easy.  It  even  occurred  to  him  that  for  one  who  believed 

44 


THE  SILVER  RING 

himself  destined  to  fly,  free  of  earth,  in  the  sunny  upper 
air,  it  might  be  no  small  encumbrance  to  be  thus  ensnared 

—  he  kept  the  figure  of  the  bird — at  the  outset.     But  again 

—  and  yet  again  —  it  was  the  main  point;  for  the  present 
moment  it  was  the  girl  he  had  wanted.  .  .  .  Had  ?     Oh, 
the  swift  passing  of  tenses!    He  put  all  thought  aside  and 
set  himself  resolutely  to  the  winning. 

"Madame,  I  refer  you  to  a  certain  sausage-shop,  of 
which  I  will  give  you  the  address,  kept  by  a  respectable 
woman  of  Avignon,  my  aunt.  So  much  for  the  Trillons 

—  the  fact  that  my  mother  was  a  Trinquetaille  is  perhaps 
less  important  to  you.    But  it  supports  me  in  times  of 
calamity  —  or  would  support  me,  for  as  yet  I  have  had 
no  misfortune  ..." 

She  cut  him  short:  "And  what  rente  does  monsieur 
derive  from  the  sausage-shop?" 

He  turned  a  surprised  face  upon  her:  "Rente?  None 
in  the  world.  I  told  you  it  was  my  aunt's.  But  since  you 
demand  a  character,  I  can  but  refer  you  to  my  only  rela- 
tion. And  heaven  knows,"  he  concluded  to  himself, 
"what  facts  she  will  manage  to  scrape  together." 

"You  have  no  rente?"  she  repeated,  goaded  out  of  her 
formal  dignity. 

"Nothing  in  the  world,"  said  he;  and  again  Auzias 
laughed,  and  patted  his  daughter's  head.  But  when  his  wife 
looked  that  way,  he  obscured  himself  in  a  cloud  of  smoke. 

"Eh,  well?"  said  the  woman  furiously.  "And  then 
—  and  then  how  do  you  live?" 

"As  best  I  can,"  was  the  calm  reply.  "There  is  food 
in  the  world  and  I  can  get  it." 

45 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

"It  is  clear,"  observed  Auzias,  coming  out  of  his  cloud, 
"  that  monsieur  is  a  young  man  of  small  experience." 

Trillon  took  this  gravely:  "The  saying  goes,  monsieur, 
that  marriage  is  the  shortest  road  to  more." 

But  he  moved  about  now,  with  a  certain  restless  im- 
patience. It  was  one  thing  to  kiss  a  pretty  girl  in  the 
sun;  and  quite  another,  to  argue  with  her  parents,  dry- 
mouthed  too,  over  means  of  living.  He  began  to  wonder 
whether  the  easiest  way  for  all  of  them,  out  of  the  situa- 
tion, were  not  to  leap  over  the  wall,  alight  on  his  feet  as 
he  was  bound  to  do,  and  so  return  as  he  had  come.  There 
were  many  pretty  girls  in  a  day's  journey  .  .  . 

But  at  this  critical  moment,  Madaleno  lifted  her  face, 
not  too  tear-stained  for  charm,  and  tear-stained  enough 
to  be  piteous;  and  the  memory  rushed  over  him  that  this 
was  the  one  girl  whom,  for  some  reason  inexplicable  to 
himself,  he  was  bent  upon  having.  He  realized  then 
that  he  had  come  near  swerving  from  his  purpose;  and 
he  mentally  shook  his  head  over  the  weakness.  If  only 
as  a  test,  he  must  see  the  thing  through. 

"Well,  madame,"  said  he,  coolly,  "if  you  and  monsieur 
consent  to  take  me  as  son-in-law,  you  will  one  day  be  very 
proud;  if  not,  we  must  manage  without  you." 

"Is  it  in  France  that  we  hear  such  talk?"  cried  she,  sud- 
denly purple.  "Or  are  we  all  mad?  You  —  Madeloun 
and  your  beggar  .  .  .  Borel,  throw  him  over  the  wall." 

But  Auzias  turned  to  the  girl:  "Eh,  Leloun,  what  say 
you?" 

She  looked  at  the  invader,  then  she  looked  away,  and 
she  was  obviously  ashamed  to  speak. 

46 


THE  SILVER  RING 

Borel  glanced  from  the  one  to  the  other,  and  chuckled 
again,  saying  to  his  wife:  "It's  a  clear  case,  woman.  We 
shall  have  to  let  them  alone.  We  have  all  been  young  in 
our  day  and  thought  we  could  live  on  sunshine  and  almond- 
shells.  Two  fools  —  more  or  less.  Let  them  go  their 
way.  It's  better  than  four  bare  walls  and  the  eternal 
ding-dong  of  a  chapel  bell." 

Trillon  did  not  hear  this,  for  he  was  balancing  himself 
on  the  table  on  the  other  side  of  Madeloun.  He  swung 
the  strap  of  his  violin-case  about,  to  ease  his  shoulder  a 
little;  and  all  the  while  he  looked  at  her  with  a  glance  that 
she  would  not  return,  and  said  nothing. 

Mere  Borel  advanced  upon  him.  "Clear  the  house 
—  scum  —  rubbish!"  said  she,  with  emphasis. 

He  looked  at  her  calmly : "  Tron-de-sort,  I  shall  do  nothing 
of  the  kind  until  I  have  finished  my  affair  here." 

And  while  she  stared  at  him,  dumb  at  his  effrontery 
and  helpless  with  rage,  he  pulled  at  his  watch-chain  until 
he  had  snapped  away  something  that  hung  there. 

"Look  up,  Madeloun,"  said  he,  with  no  attempt  at  a 
whisper.  "Here's  a  ring  for  thee.  It's  only  of  silver;  I 
won  it  last  year,  playing  ombre  with  a  gypsy  girl  under 
the  walls  of  Avignon.  But  she  had  worn  it  long,  and  she 
told  me  that  it  had  been  blest  at  the  shrine  of  St.  Sarah, 
in  the  church  of  the  Holy-Maries-by-the-Sea.  Look,  it 
has  an  image  of  the  Virgin  cut  into  it.  That  should  keep 
thee  safe,"  -  his  tone  took  on  a  tinge  of  mockery  — 
"while  I  am  out  in  the  world  making  a  fortune  for  the 
two  of  us.  Hold  out  thy  hand." 

But  she  shrank  away  behind  her  father's  shoulder: 

47 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

"Go  away!  I  don't  want  you!  I  never  want  to  see  you 
again!" 

"This  is  a  wooing  in  truth,"  said  Auzias,  though  his 
eyes  twinkled -^n  spite  of  himself. 

Trillon  had  a  word  to  that:  "Not  at  all.  The  wooing 
was  up  on  the  rocks;  this  is  the  repenting.  But  it's  too 
late  for  repentance."  He  seized  her  hand  and  pulled  it 
part  way  across  the  table. 

She  gave  a  faint  scream,  struggling  to  free  it. 

"  Come  —  come,"  said  Auzias,  and  half  rose  to  interfere. 

But  Trillon  had  been  the  quicker.  Before  the  old  man 
could  reach  forward,  before  the  woman  could  cry  out  for 
help  and  summon  the  village,  the  silver  Virgin  was  thrust 
upon  the  girl's  finger,  so  hard  that  the  skin  was  scratched 
red,  and  she  cried  out  with  pain  as  she  pulled  at  it  in  a 
succession  of  vain  efforts  to  get  it  off. 

Mere  Borel  rushed  to  the  door,  but  her  husband  was 
there  with  her:  "Hush,  woman,  we  must  keep  this  quiet. 
We  shall  never  hear  the  end  of  it  —  wait  —  wait  ..." 
He  seized  her  arm,  for  she  was  determined,  and  he  had 
much  ado  to  keep  her  where  she  was. 

When  he  could  look  again,  Trillon  was  gone,  and  Made- 
loun,  the  little  ring  still  on  her  finger,  had  her  face  on  the 
table,  sobbing. 

Auzias  went  over  to  her:  "What  did  he  say  to  you  ?" 

She  was  nearly  hysterical:  "He  said  —  he  said  —  that 
the  ring  would  keep  me  fast,  and  he  would  come  back. 
.  .  .  O  sweet  Saints,  help  me!  I  think  he  was  the  devil 
himself;  and  I  cannot  get  it  off  .  .  ." 

She  checked  her  sobs  all  at  once  and  held  her  breath. 

48 


THE  SILVER  RING 

From  the  rocks  below  there  floated  up  first  a  clear  strong 
whistle,  and  then  a  rude  sort  of  chant,  unaccompanied, 
perhaps  improvised  on  the  moment: 

"The  sun  stood  high, 
The  wind  blew  dry, 
In  the  azure  sky. 

O  falcon  fly 

Diul     Dan!     Bourn/" 

The  three  listened  without  moving  until  the  sound  had 
died  away. 


49 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  HEART  OF  MADELOUN 

Ax  Castelar,  the  burnished  chariot  of  the  sun  cleaves 
its  way  through  the  blue  air  to  the  whistle  and  crack  of 
the  whips  of  the  wind.  Rarely  through  the  long  summer 
blaze  comes  the  rumble  that  tells  how  the  smiths  of  heaven 
are  trying  to  mend  the  weather.  Now  and  again  there  is 
a  great  stillness;  and  when  the  wind  is  gone,  folk  have 
terror  of  the  rain  of  white  rays  that  kill. 

Few  sounds,  save  the  mistral,  come  so  high.  The 
cigalas  sing  in  the  plains,  the  nightingales  in  the  wooded 
valleys,  the  wild  bees  are  busy  in  the  lower  rocks.  The 
sheep-bells  climb  and  climb,  but  drift  away  among  the 
shaggy  slopes  where  no  men  dwell;  and  the  mule-carts 
tinkle  down  the  white  road,  bearing  the  stone  from  the 
quarries,  but  they  pass  seldom,  and  under  the  walls.  In 
Castelar  itself,  you  hear  but  the  chatter  of  women  about 
the  washing-pool,  or  the  rare  clear  song  of  a  girl  floating 
out  from  the  ramparts  in  La  Peirounello,  or  what  you  will. 

And  no  less  quiet  than  the  voice  of  the  town  is  the  inner 
life  of  its  people,  to  whom  come  the  echoes  of  great  deeds 
in  the  world  below,  as  far  away  and  as  rarely  as  thunder. 

5° 


THE  HEART  OF  MADELOUN 

When  two  meet  in  the  Place,  it  is  the  silk-worms  that  are 
spoken  of,  or  the  olives,  or  the  dearth  of  water.  When  a 
child  is  born  and  christened,  there  is  a  little  ripple  of  talk 
and  excitement,  and  family  histories  are  remembered. 
When  someone  dies  of  old  age,  the  small  ancient  bell  of 
King  Rent's  day  and  the  great  bell  that  Mazarin  himself 
bequeathed  are  tolled  in  alternation  and  all  men  leave  their 
work,  shepherds  and  quarrymen  together,  and  make  proces- 
sion to  fetch  the  dead  on  his  last  journey;  and  the  greater 
part  bear  their  candles  at  the  Mass,  but  a  few  of  the  impious 
men  and  boys  linger  outside  under  the  plane-trees.  Then 
the  still  life  goes  on,  with  now  and  then  a  burst  of  laughter, 
bonfires  for  St.  John's  Eve,  bloody  noses  at  election-time 
and  a  knife-thrust  or  two,  the  dancing  of  the  jarandoulo 
when  the  harvest  comes  in,  the  Adoration  of  the  Shep- 
herds in  the  church  at  Christmas  time  and  the  Noel  bush, 
the  beautiful  Masses  of  Easter  .  .  .  There  is  never 
much  doing  at  Castelar,  and  little  thinking;  but  much 
talking  in  quiet  corners,  and  song  in  the  sunshine. 

Where  one  day  is  so  much  like  another,  the  months 
glide  into  years  unperceived;  and  so  it  was  that  Madaleno 
lived  by  the  bread  of  the  moment  all  through  the  hot 
season  and  for  a  while  knew  no  change. 

And  yet  I  speak  but  by  the  letter:  her  spirit  was  no 
more  idle  than  were  the  silk-worms  that  she  tended  while 
they  made  ready  to  spin  them  cocoons;  and  like  them, 
she  herself  came  to  spin  a  chrysalis  of  the  silk  of  dreams,  in 
which  she  might  hide  and  brood. 

At  first,  there  was  the  matter  of  the  silver  ring.  She 
was  superstitious,  finding  a  touch  of  miracle  in  the  fact 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

that  it  had  somehow  slipped  on,  and  yet  for  no  manner 
of  coaxing  or  eager  plucking  would  afterwards  leave  her 
finger.  With  her  efforts  she  had  cut  into  the  raw  flesh; 
and  then  had  had  to  wait,  with  sullen  impatience,  for  the 
wound  to  heal.  She  grew  accustomed  to  hiding  the  hand 
in  her  apron  pocket,  when  any  of  the  villagers  came  her 
way. 

It  was  not  many  days  thereafter  that,  under  the  goad  of 
shame  and  the  prick  of  her  mother's  tongue,  she  flung  her 
shawl  over  her  head  and  set  off  valley-wards  that  the 
smith  might  file  away  this  token  of  the  adventurer. 

Over  against  the  ancient  guard-house  by  the  gate, 
where  now  the  grapes  are  pressed  into  wine,  she  met  a 
neighbour.  And  so  strong  was  the  wind  up  the  narrow 
pass,  that  in  holding  her  shawl  together  the  girl  forgot 
her  ring;  and  the  woman,  purblind  as  she  was,  saw 
the  flash  of  the  silver.  She  passed  for  half-witted,  the 
old  body,  but  give  me  leave  to  doubt  that. 

"Bon-ditu"  says  she.  "  What's  this  ?  "  And  she  seized 
the  hand,  peering  close  with  red-rimmed  eyes. 

Hot-cheeked  and  ready  for  tears,  Madeloun  strove  to 
withdraw;  but  the  knotted  fingers  were  strong  as  those 
of  a  witch. 

"This  is  news,"  says  the  dotard,  whose  name  was  Zoue. 
"And  is  it  the  gift  of  the  young  shepherd  across  the  valley 

—  mm-mm  —  his  name  is  gone  now;  or  is  it  from  Peire, 
the  quarryman,  who  sits  through  the  Mass  nowadays 

—  he  who  never  went  near  a  church  all  his  life,  and  mis- 
takes you  for  the  image  of  the  Blessed  Mary  all  the  while 
.  .  .  hi!  hi!  hi!"    She  cackled  away  in  laughter  until  the 

52 


THE  HEART  OF  MADELOUN 

girl  longed  to  strike  her  withered  face.  She  stopped 
herself  with  a  sudden:  "Ramoun  —  that  is  the  shepherd's 
name ;  and  a  pretty  boy  indeed  —  for  a  pretty  girl.  Which 
of  them  gave  it  thee,  Leloun,  Leleto  ?  Tell  an  old  woman, 
who  is  long  past  the  joy  of  her  life  .  .  ." 

"Let  me  go,"  cried  Madaleno.  "It's  a  work  of  sorcery, 
and  if  J6rgi  cannot  get  it  off,  I  shall  chop  away  the  finger 
myself.  She  forgot  her  secret  in  utter  misery:  "I  shall 
die  if  I  keep  it  on  much  longer!" 

(You  believed  it,  Madeloun,  I  know;  but  where  is  the 
truth  in  a  young  woman's  heart  ?  It  is  buried  so  deep  and 
groweth  so  slowly  that  she  is  turned  old  before  it  blossoms 
into  words  and  bears  fruit  in  actions.) 

Old  Zoue  shook  her  head  in  solemn  understanding  of 
the  case:  "Cut  not  off  the  finger  —  cut  not  off  the  ring. 
The  Virgin  will  be  angered  if  her  image  is  so  dishonoured. 
Moreover,  it  has  been  blessed  by  a  priest  with  holy  water, 
as  anyone  would  know.  And  would  you  take  a  sacred 
thing  like  that  from  your  life  ?  No  —  no  —  you  must 
abide  the  chance  of  it  now.  Go  into  the  church  and  pray; 
and  if  the  treasure  be  not  holy,  it  will  vanish  of  itself.  I 
could  tell  you  a  tale  ..." 

Madeloun  looked  at  her  strangely,  taking  her  words  as 
if  they  were  guidance  direct  from  Heaven;  and  without  a 
word  she  turned  aside  from  her  course,  under  the  arch- 
way that  leads  to  the  Street  of  the  Laurel,  and  so  up  the 
hill  to  the  church.  She  was  aware  of  a  curious  blending 
of  emotions,  hope  of  something  that  she  would  not  admit 
into  her  mind,  fear  of  something  that  she  would  not  name, 
a  desire  that  clung  to  her  in  despite  of  her  will. 

53 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

But  Zoue's  thirst  was  not  quenched:  "Leloun,  Leleto 
—  you  have  not  told  me  who  it  was?" 

At  this,  the  girl  gave  a  sudden  laugh,  shook  off  the 
restraining  hand,  and  fled  lightly  up  the  rock-cut  path. 

But  she  was  pensive  again  when  she  came  into  the  cool 
green  dampness  of  the  church,  crossed  herself  and  said 
her  first  little  prayer  or  two  by  long  habit,  without  think- 
ing. Then  she  continued  kneeling,  with  her  arms  across 
the  chair  in  front,  and  her  cheek  against  the  silver  ring; 
and  when  she  remembered  what  she  had  come  for,  and 
that  she  was  waiting  for  a  sign  from  above,  her  heart  beat 
fast  for  a  time. 

Close  —  close  against  her  face  she  held  the  bewitched 
thing  —  that  she  might  know  the  sooner,  she  told  herself, 
when  it  took  wings  to  fly  away.  I  think  there  was  a  while 
that  she  really  expected  it  to  slip  between  her  fingers, 
flash  like  a  marsh-light  against  one  of  the  black  chapels, 
then  disappear  forever. 

"O  Holy  Mother!"  she  began;  then  could  find  no  more 
words  to  her  prayer,  for  the  desires  of  her  heart  were 
warring. 

"O  blessed  Santo  Mario,  Saloume,  if  it  be 
wrong"  —  but  this  prayer  fared  no  better  than  the 
other. 

At  first  the  ring  had  been  cold  against  her  cheek,  but 
now  it  was  become  so  warm  that  she  had  to  move  it  gently, 
to  be  sure  that  it  was  still  there.  She  took  it  away  then, 
and  looked  at  it,  and  with  her  heart  pounding  and  flutter- 
ing unevenly,  resolved  to  put  the  test  again,  here  before 
the  altar  of  God. 


THE  HEART  OF  MADELOUN 

"If  you  be  evil,"  said  she,  "or  given  by  one  that  is  evil 
-fall  off,  ring!" 

She  shook  her  hand,  gently  at  first,  then  hard;  she 
pulled  —  she  clutched  it  and  tugged.  It  seemed  to  nestle 
more  firmly  than  before  in  the  pink  flesh. 

"It  is  my  fate,"  said  she,  paling  a  little  at  the  memory 
of  the  neighbour's  words,  and  she  tried  to  fix  her  thoughts 
with  her  eyes  upon  the  little  red  lamp  burning  before  the 
altar.  But  steadfast  as  the  flame  itself  was  the  dwelling 
of  her  mind  upon  that  one  day  marked  and  set  apart  from 
all  the  other  days  of  her  life.  Like  a  whirlwind,  he  had 
come  up  out  of  the  plains  below  and  had  borne  her  with 
him  to  the  topmost  peak  of  the  mountain;  but  the  coming 
down  —  the  memory  of  the  coming  down  was  so  vivid 
that  for  a  time  she  lost  all  sense  of  the  church,  and  lived 
over  again  the  experience  that  had  ended  with  the  silver 
ring. 

She  tried  to  think  out  her  own  feeling  in  the  matter; 
but  her  brain  was  not  used  to  such  work. 

When  the  shepherd  Ramoun  and  Peire,  the  quarryman, 
had  cast  black  looks  at  each  other  across  her  shoulders, 
and  each  had  muttered  oaths  and  threats  whenever  she 
smiled  upon  the  other,  she  had  been  very  sure  that  hi  her 
heart  was  only  delight  triumphant. 

But  in  this  case  there  was  no  joy,  only  a  strong  though 
vague  sense  of  trouble.  She  felt  ensnared  as  Magali  had 
been,  and  she  could  not  tell  whether  she  was  more  sorry 
because  she  had  been  trapped  or  because  the  trapper  had 
gone  away.  And  in  this  thought  she  came  nearer  the 
truth  than  she  had  been  before. 

55 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

But  if  Magali  had  died  among  the  White  Nuns,  through 
sheer  weariness  of  pursuit,  it  seemed  to  Madeloun  that 
she  must  die  rather  because  he  had  pursued  and  half  won 
and  gone  away  .  .  .  She  had  reached  then  the  stage  of 
the  pronoun  that  needs  no  explanation,  although  she  did 
not  realize  what  it  stood  for. 

If  she  should  die  first  .  .  .  before  he  came  back  ?  She 
had  a  moment's  pleasure  picturing  him  at  her  grave;  but 
not  even  in  her  imagination  would  he  show  grief  enough 
for  her  liking.  From  a  sentimental  point  of  view  she  had 
to  give  him  up;  he  was  not  like  the  heroes  of  the  few 
story-books  that  had  come  her  way.  .  .  . 

But  after  all  death  was  far  off.  She  put  out  her  hand 
and  touched  a  tombstone,  a  green  slab  that  stood  against 
a  pillar  by  her  side.  It  showed  an  ancient  man  in  a 
queer  dress,  kneeling  with  clasped  hands  —  she  could 
have  drawn  it  as  well  herself,  was  her  contemptuous 
judgment.  The  words  round  about  the  figure  were  in  a 
strange  tongue  —  Latin,  she  supposed,  which  only  priests 
can  read.  She  remembered  hearing  Father  Gougoulin 
say  that  the  gentleman's  name  was  Jourdain;  but  who 
he  was  or  when  he  lived  nobody  knew. 

This  was  how  Madeloun  thought  of  death.  Sant  Sa- 
vournin,  it  was  solemn  enough,  and  queer  and  stiff,  and  a 
thing  to  be  afraid  of  when  it  came,  only  it  was  so  very  far 
away  —  it  had  never  crossed  the  threshold  of  her  home. 
Somehow  she  felt  sure  it  was  not  death  should  stand 
between  her  and  Trillon  —  if  ever  he  came  back  —  as 
he  never  would — ail  ait  But  what  did  she  care?  For 
that  was  the  easiest  way  out  of  the  matter  —  if  only  she 

56 


THE  HEART  OF  MADELOUN 

could  be  rid  of  the  silver  ring,  without  vexing  the  Blessed 
Virgin  .  .  . 

It  was  not  death  that  should  part  them  —  no;  but 
the  image  of  that  man  Jourdain  set  her  a-thinking  what 
it  might  be. 

She  was  tracing  idly  with  her  plump,  dimpled,  brown 
finger  the  outline  of  his  lean,  fasting,  praying,  morti- 
fied hands,  when  the  clue  she  had  been  seeking  to 
her  trouble  of  heart  flashed  before  her  in  a  little  trail  of 
memory. 

She  had  been  sitting  long  ago,  at  the  doorway,  sewing 
a  canvas  screen  to  keep  out  the  sun.  All  at  once  her 
mother,  who  was  working  with  her,  had  sighed  heavily: 
"  It  would  be  a  happy  day  for  me  if  I  could  once  see  you 
safe  in  the  arms  of  the  good  God!" 

And  she  had  uttered  a  frightened,  "What  do  you  mean, 
mother?" 

But  for  answer  she  had  had  strange  words:  "The  sun 
is  hot  up  here,  and  it  turns  our  heads  and  makes  us  mad, 
so  that  we  must  repent  to  the  end  of  our  lives;  but  within 
the  convent  there  is  always  shelter  and  peace." 

She  remembered  every  phrase  she  had  found  to  say: 
"  But  I  am  not  mad,  my  mother.  And  I  love  the  hot  sun. 
And  in  a  convent  it  would  be  all  dark  and  cold  —  I  should 
die  of  it!" 

Her  mother  had  turned  upon  her  unfathomable  eyes: 
"We  shall  see  in  a  few  years"  —  she  was  then  just  past 
her  first  communion.  "You  are  your  mother's  daughter 
—  Saints  help  us  all!  —  but  you  would  be  safe  there." 

"Safe  from  what?"  she  had  wondered. 

57 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

Her  mother  had  only  shrugged. 

"Safe  from  what?"  she  had  insisted. 

Then  she  had  had  a  blow  on  the  cheek  that  set  it  flam- 
ing and  stinging,  another  that  almost  flung  her  from  her 
chair,  a  third  that  left  her  on  the  floor;  and  between  them 
an  ugly  word  that  she  had  never  before  heard,  repeated 
often  and  with  violence  —  a  word  that  hurt  like  the  blows, 
though  she  knew  not  its  meaning,  save  by  instinct.  Half 
a  dozen  years  had  passed  since  then,  and  although  she 
had  been  too  proud  or  ashamed  to  ask,  she  had  learned 
in  some  silent  inexplicable  way  what  evil  thing  her  own 
mother  had  called  her,  and  in  her  innocence,  the 
undeserved  and  insulting  reproof  had  formed  a 
definite  barrier  between  the  two,  not  perceived  perhaps 
by  the  older  woman,  but  never  forgotten  by  the  younger. 
Remembering  the  scene  now,  she  knew  that  she  should 
have  to  contend  —  if  Trillon  came  back  —  with  her 
mother's  determination  that  she  should  go  into  a  convent ; 
but  the  reason  for  this  bitter  resolve  that  condemned  her 
to  a  wearisome  life  of  prayer  and  dull  duties  remained 
to  her  obscure. 

As  she  knew  very  well,  from  that  day  of  brutality  which 
she  shuddered  to  remember,  the  idea  had  never  been 
dropped.  It  came  up  again  when  her  older  sisters  were 
busy  embroidering  smocks  and  sheets  against  the  day 
when  they  should  find  suitors,  while  she  was  never  given 
linen  enough  to  make  a  pillow-case.  She  might  help 
with  the  bleaching  and  sewing  of  the  others,  but  when 
she  alluded  timidly  to  her  own,  upon  one  occasion,  she 
was  drenched  in  a  flood  of  language  that  sent  her  head- 

58 


THE  HEART  OF  MADELOUN 

long  down  the  hill  into  the  grassy  meadows,  weeping  with 
a  passion  that  cared  not  who  saw. 

It  chanced  that  her  father  was  the  first  person  she  met. 
He  was  pruning  his  olive-trees  near  the  field-path  along 
which  her  hot  heart  drove  her. 

He  had  called  her  once  or  twice,  but  she  would  not  hear 
or  heed;  then  with  his  incredible  lightness  of  foot  he  had 
dashed  upon  her  and  held  her  by  the  arm. 

Questioned,  she  had  only  flung  her  apron  over  her 
head,  and  sobbed  out,  wordless,  the  bitterness  of  her  heart. 

He  had  waited  a  moment,  then  grown  restless,  had  tried  a 
joke — without  any  effect.  At  last,  he  shook  her  sharply 
back  into  her  senses.  "  Sit  down  and  tell  me  all  about  it," 
he  had  commanded,  and  stretched  himself  lazily  on  a 
grassy  bank.  She  could  see  him  now,  with  his  hat  over 
his  eyes  and  a  triple  spray  of  the  white  star-flower  called 
Savoyard  moving  between  his  lips  when  he  found  occasion 
to  answer.  Even  then  his  long  sharply-pointed  moustache 
was  nearly  white,  although  he  had  the  spring  and  the 
look  of  a  young  man. 

She  could  not  speak,  although  he  showed  unusual 
patience.  At  last  he  began:  "Madelounet,  only  fools 
run  hatless  in  the  sunshine  on  a  day  like  this." 

She  could  hear  still  the  torrent  of  her  answer:  "If  I  die 
it  is  no  matter;  I  will  not  go  into  a  convent!" 

He  had  paused  before  he  spoke,  and  she  had  hung 
breathless  for  his  words.  But  he  laughed,  and  she 
could  not  see  his  eyes,  and  she  knew  that  he  was  evad- 
ing her.  "Wait  till  they  come  and  fetch  you,"  said  he 
lightly. 

59 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

"Would  you  let  them,  pai?"  she  had  asked,  and  re- 
membered still  the  cold  fear  in  her  heart. 

Then  he  had  raised  himself  on  one  elbow  to  look  at  her: 
"Well,  what's  wrong  with  nuns?  We  must  have  nuns, 
you  know." 

"It  is  true,  then,"  she  had  said  desperately.  "My 
mother  wills  it.  And  she  will  not  give  me  a  dowry." 

He  had  pretended  to  roar  with  laughter,  but,  child  as  she 
was,  she  had  felt  the  hollowness  of  his  mirth.  "Dowry? 
What  is  the  minx  thinking  of?  Where's  your  doll? 
Caspitello !  You  have  —  how  many  years  ?" 

She  had  flung  herself  on  the  grass  beside  him,  weeping 
out  the  tears  that  she  could  not  control. 

He  had  sat  up  altogether  then  and  put  his  back  against 
the  nearest  olive-trunk — a  man  might  as  well  be  comfort- 
able, was  his  creed.  "Well,  now,"  he  had  said,  "let  us 
reason  a  little.  Look,  if  we  may  say  that  troubles  are 
like  rain,  I  am  as  light  as  the  wind  to  blow  them  away;  but 
you  and  your  mother — ay,  you're  like  the  earth;  you  drink 
them  in  and  gather  them  until  they  swell  all  together  and 
make  a  fountain  of  tears."  He  had  stopped  to  laugh  at 
his  own  image,  then  concluded : "  But  in  the  end  it  all  comes 
to  this :  if  it's  the  will  of  God  that  you  should  be  a  nun,  you 
might  as  well  try  to  fight  the  weather.  If  not,  well,  in 
any  case,  Madelounet,  your  old  father  will  stand  by  you 
as  long  as  he  can.  So  dry  your  tears." 

She  had  tried  to  obey  him,  had  got  to  her  feet  when  he 
reached  again  for  his  pruning- hook;  but  her  words  had 
been  steadfast:  "I  tell  you,  my  father,  I  will  not." 

He  had  wrinkled  up  his  eyes,  in  sympathetic  compre- 

60 


THE  HEART  OF  MADELOUN 

hension;  but  his  words  were:  "If  it  be  the  will  of  God  — " 
He  had  concluded  by  lifting  his  shoulders  and  his  eyebrows 
and  thrusting  out  his  underlip  and  the  palms  of  his  hands. 
His  meaning  was  as  clear  as  the  sunlight. 

Another  moment  he  had  paused  to  watch  the  cluttering 
swallows,  before  he  turned  him  to  his  pruning:  "There 
be  things  in  nature  and  things  against  nature  ..." 

But  when  she  wanted  the  why  of  the  pestilential  trouble, 
he  shook  his  head  again;  the  reason  was  beyond  him. 
"Why  are  you  what  you  are?  But  I  will  speak  to  your 
mother." 

With  that  he  bent  to  his  work  and  she  had  to  content 
herself.  She  remembered  how  she  had  walked  home 
under  a  hawthorn  hedge  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  how  the 
sweet  white  petals  had  showered  upon  her,  how  a  nightin- 
gale had  followed  her  until  she  began  to  climb  the  stony 
path,  fluttering  from  bush  to  bush  and  singing  out  his  free- 
dom and  his  joy — yes,  she  remembered  the  very  look  of  the 
sunset  —  bunches  of  lilac  in  a  golden  plain.  .  .  .  And 
the  quarrymen  were  going  home  to  their  supper,  and  their 
wives  stood  in  the  doorways  with  an  eye  to  the  fire  and 
one  to  the  littlest  child  that  tried  to  run  with  the  others 
to  meet  their  father  .  .  .  the  sweetness  of  it  all!  Girl 
as  she  was,  she  had  felt  it  keenly;  and  over  against  it 
stalked  the  fear  that  she  might  have  to  go  behind  high 
grey  walls  and  pray  —  pray  —  pray  .  .  . 

Ait  ail  Long  kneeling  on  cold  stones  brings  stiffness 
even  to  supple  young  joints.  Madeloun  rose  painfully, 
shook  herself  a  little,  and  brushed  her  hand  across  her 
eyes  to  be  rid  of  the  hateful  dream. 

61 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

To  be  sure,  her  father  must  have  said  something,  for 
that  was  six  years  ago;  and  though  never  a  word  had  been 
said  of  her  dowry  from  that  day  to  this,  and  both  her 
sisters  had  married  and  were  living  their  lives,  no  more 
had  the  convent  walls  closed  upon  her.  There  had  been 
talk  —  oh,  yes  —  talk  enough  and  threats  and  lamenta- 
tions, when  her  mother  was  in  the  mood;  but  there  the 
matter  had  rested  —  thanks  to  Auzias  or  some  other 
intervening  power.  .  .  .  But  now  there  was  the  silver 
ring,  and  what  difference  that  would  make  in  her  future 
she  could  not  possibly  foresee.  One  thing  was  sure:  it 
had  not  stirred  from  her  ringer,  and  so  could  not  be  evil. 
From  now  on  she  must  wear  it  and  trust  in  the  Virgin,  of 
whom  it  was  the  emblem. 

She  walked  home,  with  a  sudden  change  of  mood 
almost  merry;  and  tossing  up  her  hand  said  airily:  "Eh, 
my  mother,  it  cannot  be.  As  well  cut  the  finger  off!" 

Mere  Borel  made  a  step  forward;  and  her  daughter 
hastily  retreated  and  swung  aside  the  door-curtain,  ready 
for  flight.  The  ring  shone  like  a  diamond  in  the  sun. 

"What  would  you?  What  would  you?"  Madeloun 
laughed  still,  though  nervously.  "You  would  not  dare 
lay  hands  on  the  image  of  the  Holy  Mother  ..." 

"Huzzy!"  came  the  trumpet-sound  of  the  deep,  hoarse 
voice;  and  in  fear  of  worse  Madeloun  fled  to  the  hills. 

But  her  heart  sang  within  her,  for  she  knew  that  she 
had  made  a  stand  against  the  terror  that  threatened  her 
life;  and  although  she  was  trusting  her  future  to  the  un- 
known, warm  upon  her  head  as  the  sunshine  itself  she  felt 
the  blessing  of  the  Holy  Mother. 

62 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  SIEGE 

AH,  but  the  summer  days  are  long  and  hot  and  still  in 
the  little  Alps!  There  is  a  loneliness  in  the  very  wind 
when  it  flaps  its  great  wings,  and  with  its  shrillness  out- 
cries all  the  petty  human  sounds  of  earth.  And  when  one 
waits  and  waits  for  that  which  never  comes,  the  spirit 
grows  dull  and  barren  as  the  rocks  themselves. 

Then  perhaps  it  was  well  that  young  Madeloun  was  not 
left  to  the  agony  of  watching  uninterrupted,  waiting  for 
the  return  of  him  who  had  come  and  gone  in  a  day  and 
had  left  no  trace  of  his  presence  except  a  little  silver  ring 
-that,  and  whatever  trouble  she  bore,  wordless,  in  her 
own  heart. 

But  she  was  not  left  to  her  dreams  altogether.  The 
same  day  that  she  fled  to  the  church  to  exorcise,  if  might 
be,  the  fetter  from  her  hand  and  spirit  —  that  same  day 
she  spent  hours  wandering  knee-deep  in  lavender  and 
cytisus  where  the  wild  bees  were  busy.  There  she  was 
soothed  into  the  dream  that  she  would  yet  find  her  hap- 
piness again,  and  forget  this  time  when  her  gay  laughter 
was  often  a  mere  breaking  away  from  the  trouble  that 

63 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

pressed,  and  ended  in  sudden  tears.  When  she  returned 
home  in  the  evening,  the  first  shadow  that  crossed  her 
path,  some  little  distance  from  the  village,  came  from  the 
black  frock  of  Father  Gougoulin. 

"My  child,"  said  he,  "your  mother  came  to  see  me  to- 
day. She  is  troubled  about  you." 

"She  has  no  need  to  be,"  says  the  girl,  reddening  and 
pulling  at  her  apron. 

"What  are  these  tales  I  hear  about  you?" 

She  looked  up  into  the  dark  full  countenance,  its 
heavy  eyebrows  drawn  together  and  bent  upon  her.  It  was 
the  face  of  an  old  man  who  has  outlived  the  best  of  his 
youth  and  kept  its  weakness;  and  if  Madeloun  could  have 
put  her  sensation  into  words,  she  would  have  told  of  a  thrill 
of  fear  or  of  repulsion  whenever  they  two  encountered. 

His  question  did  not  admit  of  a  ready  answer.  She 
shifted  her  footing  and  perhaps  looked  sulky.  He  put 
out  one  stubby  finger,  shaking  a  little,  and  turned  up  her 
chin,  noting  the  angry  flush  that  marred  her  delicate 
beauty  into  a  momentary  likeness  to  her  mother's  face. 

The  change  startled  him  so  that  he  released  her  without 
a  word;  and  paused  so  long  before  speaking  that  she 
began  to  wonder  if  she  might  get  away.  When  he  spoke, 
it  was  with  calculation  and  eminent  sweet  reasonableness. 
He  read  her  a  little  homily  on  the  duties  of  children  to 
parents  .  .  . 

The  moment  he  paused  she  was  upon  him  with:  "But 
my  father  does  not  want  me  to  be  a  nun." 

"  Gently  —  gently,"  said  he.  "  Who  is  talking  of  such 
a  thing?" 

64 


THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  SIEGE 

"My  mother  has  been  talking  of  it  all  my  life,"  said 
she,  and  added  with  courage,  "as  you  know." 

At  this,  he  said  something  to  himself,  in  Latin  she  sup- 
posed, as  she  could  not  understand  it.  But  when  he 
spoke  to  her,  his  words  seemed  kind,  almost  compliant. 
"Put  the  matter  altogether  out  of  your  thoughts  for  the 
time;  and  tell  me  about  this  young  man,  who  came  up 
here  the  other  day,  with  the  express  purpose  of  working 
mischief,  it  seems." 

She  was  amazed  at  her  own  anger  in  hearing  Trillon 
thus  decried.  She  said  curtly:  "I  can  tell  you  nothing." 

"But  his  img  —  hein?" 

"I  cannot  get  it  off,"  she  declared,  with  a  flash  of 
laughter. 

"  I  could  get  it  off  for  you"  he  said,  still  reasonable,  waited 
in  vain  for  an  answer,  then  appealed:  "Could  I  not?" 

She  was  doubtful  of  being  able  to  escape  from  this,  and 
cried  in  a  sudden  panic:  "Let  me  go  home." 

"In  a  moment,"  said  he;  but  the  path  was  narrow  and 
he  was  broad,  and  he  made  no  move. 

"The  pretty  Madeloun  —  the  pretty  Madeloun,"  says 
he  then,  with  a  sigh  that  came  oddly  from  his  figure.  She 
looked  at  him,  wondering,  inclined  to  laugh. 

"Let  me  ask  you  a  question,  Madaleno:  do  you 
believe  —  in  the  bottom  of  your  heart  —  do  you  believe 
the  rascal  will  come  back?" 

She  glanced  from  him  to  her  ring,  then  back  again;  and 
found  no  answer. 

He  still  looked  at  her  hard.  "Because  they  never  do. 
I  have  been  young  —  and  I  know,"  said  he. 

65 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

For  the  moment  he  had  forgotten  her,  as  he  gazed 
across  the  darkening  valley.  It  was  perhaps  one  of  the 
grotesque  limestone  shapes  standing  out  against  the  dim- 
ness, that  became  to  his  vision  the  figure  of  a  girl,  not 
unlike  Madeloun,  her  dark  face  tinted  sweetly  by  the 
blossoms  of  the  Judas-tree  under  which  she  was  standing. 
He  was  saying  good-by  to  her,  going  out  into  the  world 
to  make  his  fortune  .  .  .  And  the  world  had  been  too 
much  for  him  and  he  had  sought  a  living  from  the  Church 
.  .  .  and  he  had  never  gone  back.  .  .  .  And  whether 
she  had  died  young,  or  had  married  another,  or  was  still 
waiting  in  a  loveless  old  age,  he  never  knew.  .  .  .  His 
hand  fumbled  for  his  rosary  and  his  lips  mumbled  a  prayer 
or  two. 

Madeloun  perceived  the  softening  of  the  grim  face,  and 
though  she  could  not  interpret  its  meaning,  she  seized  the 
chance  for  her  little  appeal: 

"I  never  wanted  to  be  a  nun  —  never;  but  my  mother 
was  always  talking  of  it  —  I  don't  know  why  .  .  ." 
"Wait  a  moment,"  said  he,  while  the  light  of  reminis- 
cence was  not  altogether  gone  from  his  face.  "Perhaps 
I  can  tell  you  something  of  that.  Look  now  —  where 
there  are  three  girls  in  one  family,  there  is  always  a  ques- 
tion of  the  dowry  —  eh?" 

Madeloun  turned  away.  When  would  they  make  an 
end  of  the  old  argument  that  yet  told  nothing?  "Is  my 
father  so  poor?"  she  asked.  "I  did  not  know." 

Father  Gougoulin  hesitated;  he  could  not  conscien- 
tiously call  Borel  poor.  "But  you  see,"  he  insisted,  "it 
is  better  not  to  marry  at  all,  than  to  marry  unfittingly. 

66 


THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  SIEGE 

And  there  are  other  states  —  well,  we  will  not  go  into  that. 
It  is  necessary  to  believe  that  your  parents  have  your 
welfare  at  heart." 

She  looked  at  him,  thinking,  but  dumb  to  find  words 
for  the  thought  that  oppressed  her.  "May  I  go  now?" 
she  asked  suddenly. 

"And  the  ring?"  he  insinuated  again. 

She  fought:  "Whatever  happened  —  and  there  is  no 
need  to  tell  you  how  it  came  about  —  I  am  betrothed  now, 
and  I  will  not  put  aside  my  ring  for  anybody!  What  you 
think  of  him  —  what  anybody  thinks  is  no  matter  —  he 
will  come  back  and  save  me  from  the  convent  ..." 

He  shook  his  head  over  her:  "Child,  child  —  it  is  not 
needful  to  speak  as  though  we  were  trying  to  force  you 
into  that  blessed  state.  You  do  not  realize  the  high 
privilege  that  is  offered  you  —  only  that.  Nothing  is 
further  from  our  thoughts  than  to  force  you  —  but  when 
you  shall  come  to  see  —  well,  well.  But  your  sin  now  is 
rebellion.  Put  away  all  thoughts  of  such  matters  and  let 
the  will  of  God  work  as  it  must  ..." 

Very  fine  words  —  these,  was  her  thought ;  but  what 
did  they  mean?  Aloud  she  asked:  "What  am  I  to  think 
of,  then?" 

"Think  of  obedience,"  said  he  sternly,  "that  is  a  daugh- 
ter's first  duty." 

Seeing  that  she  was  more  bewildered  than  ever,  he 
added  pleasantly:  "And  remember  two  things.  Your  gay 
stranger  will  not  come  back.  And  you  can  never  be 
made  a  nun  without  your  own  consent.  The  special  grace 
of  God  must  be  sought  humbly,  and  needs  not  to  be 

67 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

thrust  upon  the  reluctant  and  rebellious  heart.  Keep 
that  in  mind  and  —  come  to  Confession  next  Sunday. 
You  have  been  neglectful  ..." 

He  left  her  more  than  puzzled  —  aghast  at  what  seemed 
to  her  the  quick  changes  and  inconsistencies  of  his  atti- 
tude; but  enough  she  understood  to  be  aware  that  some 
siege  of  her  spirit  had  been  begun.  All  that  evening  she 
pondered  how  best  to  resist,  and  questioned  how  long  she 
might  hold  out,  if  he  was  slow  to  come,  for  of  yielding 
she  had  no  thought.  She  had  a  dim  forecast  of  endless 
words,  dark,  insidious,  insupportable;  and  of  herself 
clinging  desperately  to  her  love  of  life  until  help  came.  .  .  . 
Poor  child!  In  her  mind  help  had  all  too  quickly  come 
to  be  a  synonym  for  Trillon. 

"Up-there"  in  Castelar,  are  no  great  deeds,  no 
adventures;  but  there,  as  everywhere  between  earth 
and  sky,  the  little  troubles  seem  infinitely  great,  and  human 
hearts  cry  out  for  the  help  that  tarries  long. 


68 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  LETTER 

THROUGH  the  summer  she  fell  much  into  the  way  of  lean- 
ing over  the  high  parapet  of  her  garden,  as  she  had  done  the 
day  when  he  came  climbing  up  the  long  white  road,  out  of 
the  lower  world.  In  her  dreams  she  fancied  again  the  zoun- 
zoun  of  his  violin,  and  the  song  of  Magali  was  ever  on  her 
lips,  but  halted  at  the  first  bars.  She  grew  a  little  thin 
and  pale  with  unwonted  pondering;  and  he  did  not  come. 

One  day  —  the  vines  were  ripening  then  —  she  had 
leaned  back  among  the  branches  of  the  almond-tree, 
weary  of  her  watching,  when  she  heard  below  a  whistling 
of  that  same  sweet  tune. 

Her  face  was  pink  as  almond-blossoms  when  she  bent 
over  and  saw  —  the  postman. 

He  was  looking  up  and  laughing:  "If  I  had  a  letter 
for  you?" 

"That  will  be  the  day  when  you  write  me  one,"  says 
she,  pale  again  but  trying  to  jest. 

He  held  up  a  large  square  envelope:  "Read,  made- 
moiselle." He  pretended  to  spell  out  her  name;  but  she 
was  used  to  his  teasing  ways. 

69 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

"Throw  it,"  said  she,  her  sadness  returning.  Her 
father  sometimes  had  letters  from  people  engaging  rooms 
to  stop  a  night  or  two  —  they  rarely  stayed  longer  at 
Castelar. 

"I  wonder,"  said  the  postman,  "that  you  are  so  in- 
different to  a  lover;  but  it  may  be  that  you  have  too  many." 

He  tossed  the  envelope  with  a  dexterous  flip  so  that  it 
struck  her  hard  and  was  crushed  against  her  breast. 

"But  if  you  threw  them  all  at  my  head  like  that!"  said 
she,  returning  to  her  bench  to  smooth  out  the  bent  missive. 

O  Holy-Maries-by-the-Sea  —  miracle !  It  was  her  name 
written  on  the  outside.  She  caught  it  swiftly  to  her  heart, 
with  a  little  unintelligible  love-note,  as  she  rocked  back- 
wards and  forwards.  Then  she  grew  ashamed,  and  laid 
it  on  her  lap  and  looked  at  it  from  afar. 

It  was  a  big  black  scribble  —  she  had  judged  he  might 
write  like  that,  when  he  gave  his  mind  to  writing.  And 
the  stamps  were  so  strange,  and  so  many!  She  thought  he 
must  be  rich  already  to  send  such  a  letter.  And  the 
postmark  she  could  not  read  at  all;  it  looked  a  mere  jumble 
of  consonants  that  did  not  belong  together. 

"Madeloun!"  came  her  mother's  voice  from  the  door- 
way. 

As  she  answered,  the  letter  went  swiftly  between  the 
folds  of  lisse  that  formed  her  little  jaudau  or  front,  and 
her  fichu  of  yellow-and-white  print.  Perhaps  the  post- 
man would  forget  what  he  had  given  her,  though  that  was 
unlikely;  perhaps  he  would  have  the  instinct  not  to  tell, 
being  a  good  friend  of  hers.  Certainly,  it  was  as  well  to 
be  cautious  while  one  could. 

70 


THE  LETTER 

"Madelotm,"  said  Mere  Borel,  "Father  Gougoulin 
wishes  to  see  you  now." 

For  the  first  time  in  many  days  the  girl  heard  this 
familiar  message  with  indifference;  and  making  no  pro- 
test, folded  her  work  and  turned  to  go. 

Her  mother,  fully  prepared  for  defiance  and  argument, 
stood  watching  her  from  the  doorway,  but  she  did  not 
look  long  enough  or  far  enough,  for  as  soon  as  the  girl  had 
passed  under  the  black  archway  leading  up  to  the  church 
and  the  presbytery,  she  turned  aside  by  a  path  that  was  a 
mere  slit  between  ruined  houses  and  rock.  She  did  not 
mind  that  she  was  stung  fiercely  by  nettles  all  the  way  — 
freedom  was  purchased  cheaply  at  that  price;  nor  did  she 
think  of  the  retribution  that  would  fall  upon  her  in  the 
evening.  For  the  moment  she  was  safe,  and  her  treasure 
was  at  her  heart. 

She  ran  without  stopping,  through  the  hollow  courts 
of  the  old  castle,  and  paused  at  length  on  a  sort  of  terrace 
near  the  edge  of  the  cliff.  Then  she  remembered  a  safer 
place,  and  began  to  descend  by  a  path  invisible,  save  that 
here  and  there  was  the  mark  of  a  footstep  —  the  secret 
path  which,  once  discovered,  might  have  led  to  the  storm- 
ing of  the  castle  by  besiegers  climbing  in  single  file.  And 
perhaps  it  so  happened  more  than  once.  Madeloun  flut- 
tered down  lightly,  knowing  the  place  by  heart,  until  she 
came  past  the  ancient  postern,  now  open  to  the  winds, 
and  onward  until  presently  she  reached  a  chamber  almost 
like  a  cave  cut  out  of  the  solid  rock,  overlooking  the  foot- 
hills and  the  plain.  Few  people  knew  the  place,  or  cared 
at  least  to  visit  it ;  but  there  had  once  been  stopping  at  the 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

Cabro  d'Or  a  learned  man,  to  whom  she  had  shown  the 
spot;  and  he  had  explained  to  her  how  it  had  once  been 
a  dwelling  of  her  ancestors  when  they  were  savages  —  a 
thing  hard  to  believe.  But  he  had  pointed  out  the  granary 
in  the  floor,  the  cupboard  in  the  wall,  the  little  crib  in 
which  had  been  tethered  a  goat  perhaps,  or  some  other 
beast,  and  the  mark  of  the  ring  on  the  wall  to  which  it  had 
been  tied  —  many  signs  of  habitation  by  a  wild  life  that  had 
passed  away  and  still  was  beating  in  her  veins.  Some 
such  things  he  had  said,  and  she  had  listened,  though  she 
had  not  understood  them  very  well. 

But  the  place  was  the  retreat  she  wanted;  and  she 
cuddled  happily  on  the  floor,  with  her  arm  on  the  ledge 
of  the  rudely  cut  window,  while  she  studied  her  envelope, 
eager  yet  fearful  to  open  it.  It  was  not  long  before  she 
reached  for  a  silver  pin  from  her  coiffure  and  carefully 
slit  the  cover  from  end  to  end.  The  dear  fat  letter! 
She  put  in  a  cautious  finger  and  drew  out  a  great  roll  of 
paper.  He  could  talk  —  assuredly  he  could  talk  —  on 
paper  as  well  as  with  the  tongue ;  and  he  must  have  much 
to  say  to  her  to  spend  such  a  deal  of  money  on  stamps. 

It  was  large  writing  and  beautifully  plain  to  read;  and 
the  first  words  that  flashed  upon  her  sight,  as  she  unfolded 
the  big  sheets,  were  in  the  dear  native  tongue  —  not  in 
French:  "Little  flower  of  my  heart  —  "Pichouno  flour eto 
de  moun  cor." 

She  drank  in  the  meaning  and  laid  her  face  to  the  sheet, 
and  wept;  and  yet  when  he  went  away  she  had  prayed 
against  him  as  against  the  devil.  Oh,  the  magic  of  the  sun 
can  do  more  than  that! 

72 


THE  LETTER 

Presently,  she  began  at  the  beginning,  with  a  careful 
tracing  finger;  but  at  the  very  name  of  the  place  from 
which  it  was  written,  she  stuck  fast.  Caspi;  when  she 
had  spelled  it  through,  she  was  no  wiser  than  before!  It 
seemed  strange  to  her  that  he  should  be  living  in  a  land 
that  was  as  foreign  to  her  as  the  moon.  With  a  sudden 
thought,  she  fluttered  over  the  pages  to  the  end,  to  make 
sure  that  the  letter  really  was  from  him.  Yes,  at  the 
bottom  of  the  last  sheet  she  found  his  name:  "Trillon  — 
of  the  race  of  the  Trinquetailles."  That  was  his  way  — 
nobody  else  would  have  said  that;  but  the  writing  was 
small  and  spidery  like  that  of  a  fine  lady  once  seen  by  her, 
and  utterly  different  from  the  big  bold  penning  that  she 
had  thought  his.  These  mysteries  only  the  letter  could 
solve.  She  overcame  the  reluctance  that  fought  with  and 
almost  overpowered  her  eager  desire;  and  she  read  the 
message  sentence  by  sentence: 
"Little  flower  of  my  heart: 

"First,  you  must  know  that,  never  having  troubled  my 
head  about  writing  at  the  school,  and  this  climate  being 
hot  —  hotter  than  any  day  you  have  ever  seen,  my  pretty 
-I  have  hired  a  fellow  from  Aix,  who  happens  to  be 
here,  like  myself  fortune-hunting,  to  put  down  for  you 
these  few  words,  hoping  that  they  find  you  as  well  and 
happy  as  they  leave  me  .  .  ." 

(It  must  be  confessed  that  she  frowned  a  little  at  the 
picture  of  Trillon  happy;  but  when  was  he  otherwise?) 

"If  you  would  know  where  we  are,  it  is  at  a  cafe"  by  the 
water-side  at  (oh,  the  dreadful  name!)  under  a  mountain 
so  big  that  you  could  set  your  little  Alps  on  end  and  they 

73 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

would  not  reach  to  his  top.  Well,  as  I  began,  it's  a  fellow 
from  Aix  who  is  writing  on  the  crazy  table,  while  I  drink 
my  — "  (well,  she  could  not  make  out  the  word,  but  it  must 
be  some  strange  liquor  of  the  country).  "I  shall  pay  him 
what  comes  to  twenty-five  francs  in  this  land,  for  his  piece 
of  women's  work;  and  if  in  the  end,  when  he  has  read  it 
over  to  me,  I  find  he  has  left  out  anything  I  meant  to  say 
to  my  little  flower,  he  shall  have  twenty-five  bangs  on  the 
head—" 

("Oh,  the  braggart!"  she  cooed,  in  delicious  joy.) 

" — instead  of  the  last  money  I  have  in  the  world, 
except  enough  for  the  stamps  to  send  this  letter;  and  to 
pay  for  the  drinks." 

(This  was  sober  news.  Madeloun  felt  as  if  a  sudden 
dash  of  rain  had  swept  in  through  her  rock- window.  But 
the  sun  was  shining  as  brightly  as  before.) 

"Well,  then,  you  will  want  to  hear  what  has  happened 
to  me.  When  I  left  you  'up- there,'  my  little  flower  of  the 
rock,  —  do  you  remember  how  we  climbed  to  the  castle, 
and  how  we  came  down  together?" 

(Remember?  The  sun  poured  a  silver  shower  upon 
her  and  her  pages,  and  for  a  while  she  heeded  it  no  more 
than  did  the  little  brown  lizard  over  her  head.  Then 
she  struck  the  sheet  in  sudden  anger,  and  read  on.) 

"Afterwards,  I  took  the  straight  road  to  the  sea,  for  I 
have  always  thought  that  more  lies  across  the  water  than 
on  the  hither  side  —  more  and  easier  to  be  got.  I  went 
down  with  some  of  the  mule-carts  carrying  stone  to  the 
valley;  and  it  was  merry  work  singing  to  the  jingle  of  the 
bells.  The  fellows  had  some  good  stories  too  .  .  ." 

74 


THE  LETTER 

("So  soon!"  she  cried.  "So  soon  after!  Oh,  how 
could  you?") 

"And  in  the  plains  there  were  market-carts  enough. 
I  had  always  a  lift  for  what  I  could  tell,  or  a  twitch  or  two 
of  the  violin.  I  don't  suppose  you  had  dried  your  tears  - 

("The  villain!  Oh!  the  conceited  wretch!"  she  cried, 
and  would  not  read  on  for  a  time;  but  in  the  end  curiosity 
impelled.) 

" — before  I  was  tucked  away  among  the  wine-casks 
on  a  vessel  bound  from  Marseilles  to  this  place  —  I  spare 
the  writing  of  it  when  I  can.  It  cost  me  no  more  than 
two  buttons  to  get  a  boatswain  properly  tipsy,  and  to  buy 
food  until  I  was  ready  to  come  on  deck.  Fortune  —  save 
for  you,  little  flower,  I  should  call  Fortune  my  sweetheart; 
but  you  would  be  jealous  —  the  second  day  out,  while  I 
was  meditating  upon  times  and  means,  Fortune  sent  a 
gale  that  blew  a  fellow  overboard.  I  myself  was  seasick 
—  very  bad  —  but  that  is  no  matter.  So  I  waited  until 
the  wind  had  settled,  and  the  captain's  mind,  and  my 
stomach,  and  I  went  up  under  the  stars,  and  said : '  Here's 
a  pair  of  hands  for  those  you  have  lost.'  He  did  not  seem 
as  grateful  as  you  would  think ;  but  I  spare  you  his  cursing. 
In  the  end  he  graciously  permitted  me  to  assist  the  cook 
and  to  clean  out  his  cabin,  polish  brasses  and  the  like. 
It  would  have  been  degrading;  but  I  gloried  in  the  thought 
that  it  was  all  done  for  your  sweet  sake,  mignoto.  What 
hardship  was  messing  in  oily  dish-water  when  I  would 
have  drunk  up  the  seas  to  come  to  you  — ?" 

("And  he  was  going  away,  all  that  while,"  she  observed 
somewhat  dryly.) 

75 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

"And  what  was  taking  out  the  guts  of  a  fowl,  when  I 
was  ready  to  dig  into  the  bowels  of  the  earth  for  your 
adornment — ?" 

("Tut!"  says  Madeloun,  or  the  equivalent  in  her 
Provencal.) 

"When  we  came  to  land,  I  was  as  sound  as  a  rock  and 
as  gay  as  a  mating  swallow  — " 

("Indeed!  And,  indeed!"  said  young  madam;  and 
the  continued  existence  of  the  letter  was  threatened.) 

" — with  my  clothes  rather  the  worse  for  deck-swabbing 
and  so  on,  almost  buttonless,  because  of  little  needs  by 
the  way;  but  in  my  pocket  money  that  I  had  earned,  and 
some  that  I  had  won.  I  knew  I  should  not  be  long  getting 
more  —  it's  my  religion,  you  know,  belief  in  my  luck. 
For  any  other  faith,  I  was  brought  up  too  near  —  under 
the  very  wing  of  the  Popes  ..." 

("I  must  have  enough  for  both,"  says  she,  with  a  pretty 
maternal  air.  "Santo  Mario,  but  he  is  a  wicked 
man!") 

"You  might  have  measured  my  fortunes  those  first 
days  by  the  coming  and  going  of  my  buttons.  One  is 
always  safe,  I  know,  about  your  sweet  neck  .  .  ." 

("Ah,  Santo  Mario  Madaleno!"  —  her  hand  went  up 
to  her  throat,  for  the  words  were  true.) 

"It  came  to  be  a  useless  bother  sewing  them  on  and 
cutting  them  off.  After  a  time  I  took  to  casting  them 
abroad  as  a  man  plays  with  counters;  and  usually  they 
came  back  and  brought  luck  with  them.  At  present, 
however  —  for  the  moment  —  I  am  nearly  buttonless. 
But  that's  no  matter.  We  shall  see  what  happens  to- 

76 


THE  LETTER 

morrow.  So  you  may  imagine  me,  wandering  far,  seeing 
everything,  doing  what  comes  to  my  hand,  and  thinking 
always  of  you  ..." 

("Ah,  basto!"  she  cries.  "I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it. 
The  man  is  a  gabbler!") 

"  Every  night  I  have  said  to  myself,  '  To-morrow  I  will 
go  up  into  the  mountains  and  make  a  fortune  for  my 
Madelouneto,  but  every  morning  it  is  so  hot,  and  it  rains 
all  the  time.  One  can  but  lift  the  hand  to  throw  dice. 
The  digging  of  diamonds  must  come  later  —  when  the 
fine  dry  season  is  with  us.  You  have  no  idea  what  a 
curious  place  this  is  .  .  .'" 

(Nor  did  she  wish  to  know,  she  told  herself  with  a  sob. 
What  was  this  far-away  land  to  her?  She  must  have 
skipped  some  sentences,  as  she  read  on:) 

"  Come,  now,  if  you  could  only  fly  across  the  ocean  to 
me,  should  we  not  be  happy  as  a  king  and  queen  together? 
I  should  come  and  fetch  you,  only  the  heat,  or  the  fever 
or  something  —  I  have  had  the  fever — " 

(She  stopped  with  a  shock  of  terror,  then  hurried  on.) 

"  —  gets  into  a  man's  bones  and  makes  him  lazy.  Each 
day  I  sleep  in  the  coolest  corner  I  can  find  —  safe  from 
snakes  and  mosquitoes,  and  each  day  I  say  this  shall  be 
the  last  of  such  a  life.  (Pecaire!  the  fellow  from  Aix  goes 
a  good  pace.  Did  he  put  that  down  I  wonder?  We 
shall  see.)" 

"What  was  I  telling  you?  Eh,  well,  little,  little  girl 
(chatouneto),  it's  a  ragged  lover  you  have  now,  the  laughing- 
stock of  himself  and  the  sailors  on  the  quay  from  all  parts 
of  the  world.  I  don't  mind.  It's  money  I  won  from  them 

77 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

shall  pay  the  fellow  from  Aix:  and  to-morrow  I  get  more. 
I  think  I  am  at  the  end  of  my  words.  Look  now,  what 
shall  I  bring  you  back  ?  Rubies  —  sapphires  —  dia- 
monds? The  mountains  are  full  of  them  all,  they  say. 
One  has  only  to  go  with  a  pick  and  scrape.  And  gold  is 
to  be  gathered  like  pebbles  by  the  sea,  and  silver  is  the 
dust  under  one's  feet.  But  it  is  the  getting  there,  you 
understand.  Once  over  the  ridge  .  .  .  but  the  ridge  is 
far  away.  However,  we  shall  see  soon.  Already  I  can 
hear  you  tinkling  in  the  wind  with  gold  chains  and  jewels, 
as  pleased  as  a  lamb  with  its  first  bell.  Caspitello !  Keep 
up  your  heart.  A  man  cannot  win  a  fortune  in  a  day." 

(What  question  of  hers  had  he  divined  that  he  should 
seem  to  answer  so  ?) 

"  Give  me  a  little  month  —  a  week  —  a  year  —  I  care 
not  what,  and  you  shall  be  as  fine,  as  splendid  as  any 
girl  in — " 

("  The  Kingdom  of  Pamparigousto  —  the  Land  of 
Dreams,"  said  she,  with  tears  in  her  eyes;  and  yet  she 
did  not  lose  her  faith  altogether.  As  she  read  on,  a  fear 
again  crossed  her,  for  he  seemed  to  divine  her  very 
thought.) 

"  Words  —  you  say  ?  Boasting  —  mere  breath  ?  There 
is  no  answer  to  that  but  time.  True,  I  have  a  hopeful 
heart;  but  hope  does  not  conquer  the  world.  You  shall 
judge.  What  do  you  want?  Vows?  Shall  I  swear 
never  to  come  home  to  you  empty-handed  — ?" 

("Ah,  come  —  if  it  be  as  a  beggar!"  she  sighed,  for- 
getting her  anger  in  sudden  loneliness.) 

"Truly,  I  would  work  my  finger-nails  off  to  reach  you; 

78 


THE  LETTER 

but  a  bird  of  my  nature  likes  to  fly  back  with  a  tit-bit  in 
his  bill." 

(He  had  such  a  way  of  putting  things!) 

"And  if  I  may  turn  prophet,  I  say  now  that  I  shall 
come  back  in  a  time  when  you  have  great  need  of  me  — " 

("Ah,  but  quickly!  You  must  come  quickly  then," 
she  whispered  to  the  sheets,  kissing  them  down  as  they 
threatened  to  blow  away  in  a  sudden  gust. 

"  But  however  that  may  be  —  whether  I  come  or  not 
—  we  have  always  the  memory  of  the  past  —  our  one 
great  day,  when  we  flew  straight  into  the  sun  .  .  ." 

She  did  not  know  what  she  was  doing.  She  became  a 
young  image  of  her  mother;  and  the  letter  lay  scattered 
about  the  cave  in  tiny  shreds  of  paper;  and  those  that 
were  nearest  she  trampled  and  stamped  under  foot,  until 
she  grew  dizzy,  and  fell  back  against  the  wall,  blind  and 
gasping. 

But  her  rage  was  not  yet  exhausted.  A  deeper,  more 
deliberate  malice  led  her  to  stoop  and  gather  up  the  pieces, 
as  many  as  she  could  find  —  for  some  fluttered  away 
before  her  eyes  —  and  to  throw  them  into  the  bottom  of 
the  prehistoric  granary.  Then  she  sought  stones  from 
the  pathway,  from  the  cliff-side,  leaning  perilously  to  drag 
them  up,  lifting,  in  her  blind  passion,  boulders  that  she 
could  not  have  stirred,  another  day.  Inch  by  inch,  and 
foot  by  foot,  the  letter  was  hidden  in  its  grave;  and  now 
and  again  it  was  splashed  with  blood  from  the  girl's  cut 
fingers. 

The  granary  was  half-full  of  stones  and  rubble  —  for 
she  clawed  at  the  sand  and  clay  in  her  first  madness  — 

79 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

when  she  flung  herself  on  the  rock  floor,  in  the  nausea 
of  faintness. 

The  evening  shadows  had  come  when  she  moved  again, 
and  lifted  herself  on  her  elbow ;  and  through  the  throbbing 
of  her  brain,  remembered  that  she  had  left  the  end  of  her 
letter  unread. 


80 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THREE   TO   ONE 

AT  sunset  she  went  home  to  whatever  fate  she  might 
have  brought  down  upon  her  head ;  but  she  lingered  a  while 
on  the  terrace  outside  her  father's  inn,  reluctant,  half 
afraid  to  enter. 

She  looked  across  the  valley  to  the  limestone  monsters 
of  the  opposite  slope,  overgrown  with  furze  and  high 
broom;  and  she  watched  the  tinkling  descent  of  a  dusty 
flock  and  wondered  idly  whether  the  shepherd  were 
Ramoun,  whose  black  eyes  burnt  her  neck  every  Sunday 
at  church,  or  only  Charloun  of  Masblanc.  ...  It  was 
Charloun. 

The  sky  above  the  long  jagged  line  of  the  mountains 
was  like  a  great  shell,  ringed  with  opalescence  about  a 
centre  of  pale  gold  where  the  sun  had  vanished.  A 
moment  she  dreamed  of  far-away  lands,  then  clenched 
her  fists  to  keep  back  the  angry  tears,  and  gazed  down 
the  blueness  of  the  valley  to  the  first  light  that 
burned  like  a  single  star  from  the  mas  where  Jano-Marlo 
lived.  Darkness  was  coming  on  fast ;  beyond  the  crumple 
of  low  hills  reared  like  a  breakwater  at  the  valley's  end, 

81 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

lay  the  ocean  of  the  blue  plain  with  its  hovering  mists  — 
the  Crau.  And  far  to  the  southward  —  a  second  Milky 
Way  upon  the  earth  —  lay  a  faint  radiance  —  Marseilles. 

Thence  he  had  sailed  to  the  unknown  west  —  her  lover 
of  a  day.  In  the  falling  darkness,  with  great  spaces  all 
about  her,  Madeloun's  spirit  leaped  in  its  chains. 
Bon-dieu!  When  was  there  hope  of  his  coming? 

And  now  she  had  a  fierce  pang  for  her  letter  that  she 
had  buried,  and  certain  knowledge  that  she  would  have 
to  go  back  and  pick  out  with  pain  and  tears  the  fragments, 
and  lay  them  on  the  rock-floor  of  the  cavern,  and  draw 
from  them  such  pitiable  meaning  as  she  could 

But  he  would  never  come.  Alone  in  the  darkness,  she 
was  sure  of  that.  And  high  behind  the  steep  ramparts 
she  was  imprisoned  fast  within  the  walls  that  climb  one 
above  the  other  until  they  can  go  no  higher  —  as  fast  in 
her  ignorance  and  her  youth  as  if  she  had  been  barred  in 
one  of  the  castle  dungeons.  .  .  .  The  ancient  gates  were 
wide  and  rotting  on  their  hinges,  and  the  cobbled  way  that 
they  call  the  Roman  road  led  down  among  the  folk  of  the 
big  world  outside;  but  she  —  how  could  she  follow  it, 
seeking  among  strangers  him  that  she  loved? 

Yes,  he  had  come  and  gone  forever  —  she  began  to  be 
sure  of  that  —  like  a  vision  seen  once  in  a  lifetime  of  the 
great  Capoun-Fbr,  the  falcon  of  the  wild  mountains  where 
no  man  lives.  A  moment  he  had  hovered,  swooped,  and 
caught  her  in  his  claws,  only  to  drop  her  back  into  her  dull 
place,  while  he  spread  his  great  wings  for  the  sea.  .  .  . 
Once  .  .  .  once  only,  she  had  seen  such  a  flight,  such  a 
swoop,  such  a  vanishing;  but  —  the  Capoun-Fbr  had  not 

82 


THREE  TO  ONE 

dropped  his  prey.  She  was  a  little  child  then,  but  the 
memory  had  lingered  all  her  days;  and  sometimes  even 
now,  in  her  dreams,  she  was  haunted  by  the  rush  and 
terror  of  the  moment,  and  awoke  with  a  cry  .  .  . 

The  night  chill  was  upon  her  and  penetrated  her  heart; 
she  turned  within  doors  to  judgment. 

As  she  lifted  the  canvas  curtain,  she  saw  at  first  only 
the  firelight  reflected  in  the  blue-and-white  tiles  of  the 
hearth,  and  the  black  outline  of  her  mother  stooping  over 
a  saucepan  there.  But  at  the  first  sound  of  her  timid 
footsteps,  Mere  Borel  stirred  the  frying  potatoes  with  such 
vigour  that  oil  fled  into  the  embers  and  made  a  great 
blaze,  by  the  light  of  which  Madeloun  saw  on  one  side  of 
the  table  her  father  beating  his  fingers  against  his  knees 
—  a  sign  with  him  of  embarrassment  and  annoyance  — 
and  across  the  board,  the  face  she  most  dreaded  to  see, 
the  fat  dark  cheeks  and  grizzled  close-drawn  brows  of 
Father  Gougoulin.  ...  It  was  clear  to  the  child's  per- 
ception that  they  were  waiting  for  her;  and  it  even  crossed 
her  mind  that  they  had  sat  in  darkness  to  trap  her,  as 
fearing  that  she  might  through  the  window  see  them 
gathered  together,  and  in  her  fear  run  away  again. 

However  that  may  have  been,  she  felt  the  tension  of 
the  room  so  keenly  that  she  turned  with  a  swift  impulse  to 
flight;  but  her  knees  gave  way  and  she  dropped  on  a  chair 
by  the  door,  telling  herself  that  the  smell  of  the  hot  oil 
sickened  her. 

It  was  Father  Gougoulin  who  spoke:  "Light  a  candle, 
Auzias  —  no,  never  mind  the  lamp  now." 

The  room  was  still,  but  for  the  sputtering  on  the  fire, 

83 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

while  the  blue  match-flame  leaped  up,  wavered,  died 
away,  and  at  last  flared  into  yellow. 

Then  the  priest  spoke  again:  "Give  her  something  to 
drink."  Even  with  his  words,  he  reached  out  to  the  rack 
at  his  elbow  and  took  down  a  glass,  poured  into  it  from 
one  of  the  two  bottles  on  the  table,  added  sugar  and 
water,  and  held  up  the  mixture  with  a  hand  that  shook 
in  the  candle-light. 

"Come  and  take  it,"  said  he  gently  enough.  " Orange- 
flower-water  is  good  for  a  hot  heart." 

She  dared  not  disobey,  but  she  came  tossing  her  head  in 
denial,  and  dropped  to  her  knees  with  her  apron  ready  to  be 
carried  to  her  face,  awaiting  condemnation.  But  even  in 
her  distress  she  saw  that  the  other  bottle  before  him  con- 
tained the  best  wine  of  the  house — the  spicy  ferigoulet  — 
and  she  wondered  to  herself  whether  his  heart  had  not 
needed  the  coolness  of  orange-flower-water.  The  hospital- 
ity accorded  and  accepted  showed — or  to  her  mind  seemed 
to  show — that  he  was  in  league  with  her  parents  against  her. 

She  steadily  refused  the  soothing  drink,  and  he  set  it 
away,  touching  her  soft  hair  a  moment,  where  it  sprang 
from  under  her  cap ;  and  over  her  head  he  laughed  to  her 
father:  "The  high  stomach  of  youth!" 

The  words  made  her  vaguely  angry  and  stirred  her  to 
her  feet;  and  there  she  stood,  twisting  her  apron  and 
ready  for  what  they  might  all  have  to  say  against  her. 

"You  did  not  come  to  me  this  afternoon,"  began  Father 
Gougoulin,  mildly  enough. 

She  bent  her  head,  and  only  upon  a  sharp  admonition 
from  Mere  Borel,  added  faintly  the  polite,  "No,  father." 

84 


THREE  TO  ONE 

"You  forgot?" 

"No,  father,"  said  Madeloun,  more  boldly;  and  turned 
a  moment  as  some  of  her  mother's  cookery  again  flew 
into  the  fire.  The  low  growling  from  the  older  woman 
sounded  scarcely  human. 

"What,  then?" 

Madeloun  seemed  to  gather  all  her  courage  into  her 
apron,  and  held  it  up  by  its  two  ends  as  if  she  were  offering 
something. 

"I  had  a  letter,"  she  answered,  "and  I  went  away  to 
read  it." 

"Ah,  ah,"  said  he,  very  quietly,  and  then  with  a  sharp 
intonation:  "Ah!" 

She  faced  him  desperately. 

"Well,"  said  he.    "Goon." 

She  flashed  a  moment:  "It  is  for  you  to  go  on;  I  have 
nothing  to  say." 

"Chut  —  chut,"  came  a  whistling  sound  from  Auzias; 
and  the  frying-pan  crashed  upon  the  tiles. 

But  the  priest  was  unmoved  —  only  stared  at  her,  with 
his  brows  making  one  line  and  his  lower  lip  protruding. 

"Eh,  well,"  said  he.     "Let  me  see  that  letter." 

She  had  a  moment's  joy  in  her  work  of  destruction. 
"I  have  not  got  it."  She  laughed  at  him,  with  an 
under-current  of  strong  passion.  "It  is  read  and 
buried  so  deep  that  you  will  never  find  it  —  any  of  you!" 
And  her  heart  cried:  "God  forgive  me  the  lie;  it  is 
not  all  read." 

There  was  a  brief  silence,  during  which  the  priest  drew 
out  his  watch  and  studied  it.  Then  he  spoke: 

85 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

"It  is  high  time.  I  have  nothing  more  to  say.  I  will 
let  you  know"  —  this  plainly  to  Auzias  —  "in  a  few  days." 

He  rose  to  go,  a  ponderous  figure,  to  Madeloun  terrible. 

"What  will  you  do  with  me?"  her  fear  cried  out. 

"Nothing,  my  child,"  he  answered  composedly.  "You 
will  come  to  your  senses  in  time." 

She  saw  the  futility  of  further  appeal  there.  She  looked 
at  her  mother's  grim  face  and  away  again.  She  flung 
herself  upon  Auzias,  clinging  to  him  as  if  she  expected 
some  force  to  drag  her  thence.  "Father,  you  will  not  let 
them?" 

He  did  not  deny  her  caresses  —  indeed,  he  shook  her  a 
little,  half  jokingly,  as  if  to  reassure  her:  "Caspi,  Leleto, 
you  are  a  mad  girl,  and  the  talk  of  the  village.  You  had 
no  business  with  that  letter  .  .  ." 

"It  was  my  letter,"  she  insisted. 

And  he:  "Well,  my  pigeon,  stop  your  pecking.  We 
shall  see." 

We  shall  see  —  Trillon's  phrase!  And  what  did  it 
mean? 

She  sat  up  then  and  tried  to  force  him  to  meet  her  eyes: 
"Will  you  save  me  or  must  I  save  myself?" 

"The  huzzy!"  —  Mere  Borel  shook  a  fist  that  might 
have  killed  rebellion  with  a  blow.  "You  shall  be  served 
out.  Wait  —  just  wait!" 

It  was  Trillon  again  —  Madeloun  laughed  to  herself 
hysterically.  All  the  world  seemed  to  be  falling  into 
Trillon's  ways;  and  he  who  alone  could  save  her  was 
across  the  sea,  and  would  never  come  back  again  .  .  . 

"It's  a  lot  of  trouble  and  talking  over  a  small  matter," 

86 


THREE  TO  ONE 

mumbled  Auzias,  probably  unaware  that  he  had  spoken 
aloud,  for  he  jumped  a  little  when  the  priest  turned  upon 
him  sharply:  "Small?  Do  you  call  a  girl's  soul  a  small 
matter?" 

"Eh,  well,"  Auzias  apologized.  "I  had  no  intention 
to  offend.  But  if  it  takes  all  this  to-do  to  save  one  soul 
.  .  .  and  how  about  us  common  mortals  who  stand  out- 
side .  .  .?" 

"Do  not  talk,"  said  Father  Gougoulin  sternly,  "of 
things  you  cannot  understand." 

For  the  moment,  Madeloun  thought  her  father  was 
with  her;  but  he  moved  restlessly  under  her  weight. 
Finally  he  laughed  and  said  nervously:  "I  am  not  a  re- 
ligious man,  as  you  know,  father;  and  you  might  make  a 
large  book  out  of  the  things  I  don't  understand,  so  what- 
ever seems  best  to  you  and  the  wife  .  .  ." 

At  this,  Madeloun  went  away  from  him  and  stood  in 
the  centre  of  the  room,  and  defied  them  all:  "I  will  not 
weep  for  you  —  I  know  that  is  your  wish  .  .  .  and  I 
will  not  be  afraid  .  .  .  and  I  will  be  saved  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  come  then,  Clapper- tongue!"  Auzias  tried  to 
reason  with  her. 

But  he  was  interrupted  by  the  priest,  trumpet-toned 
and  denunciatory  at  last:  "Have  you  forgotten  the  fifth 
commandment?  The  wrath  of  God  will  be  upon  you!" 

She  looked  at  him  straight,  and  all  the  fierce  savagery 
that  lay  deep  in  her  nature  rose  to  the  surface.  She  hissed 
at  him  like  a  little  cat. 

He  made  a  stride  forward,  but  the  mother  was  before 
him  —  Auzias  lifting  bewildered  hands  to  his  temples; 

87 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

but  the  girl  was  quickest  of  all,  and  fled  away  like  a  swal- 
low up  the  stairs  and  bolted  her  door. 

There  was  more  of  ceremony  than  of  piety  in  the  formal 
blessing  with  which  Father  Gougoulin  departed  from  the 
parents. 

Auzias  went  to  the  door  with  him  and  came  back  fretful : 
"Bon-dieu — these  priests  —  these  priests  —  why  cannot 
they  let  a  decent  man's  family  alone?  What  is  it  all 
about?" 

His  wife  turned  on  him  like  a  fury,  but  being  roused 
from  his  easy-going  indolence,  he  checked  her  with  a  curt : 
"Basto  —  be  still,  woman;  and  set  out  the  supper." 

Her  hands  were  shaking  as  she  placed  upon  the  white 
oil-cloth  the  potatoes  and  the  salad,  the  bread  and  wine 
and  black  olives;  and  then  began  to  dish  up  for  Auzias 
his  great  basin  of  soup. 

They  ate,  wordless,  he  sighing  between  his  gulps,  and 
she  black  with  suppressed  storm  that  boded  evil  for  the 
morrow.  And  Madeloun,  alone  upstairs,  was  supperless, 
as,  of  course,  she  deserved  to  be. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  PROMISE 

IT  was  no  longer  than  the  day  after  that  there  came  into 
the  little  inn  at  the  top  of  the  hill  one  of  those  sudden 
irruptions  of  drama  that  divide  all  lives,  even  the  most 
commonplace,  into  epochs. 

Among  the  village  people  there  was  no  accounting  for  the 
tragedy.  True,  the  summer  had  been  hot.  Sant  Marceu 
aid  us,  but  the  drought  had  been  long  and  furious !  The 
upper  wells  had  been  drained;  and  the  women  were  worn 
out  with  toiling  up  the  steep  cobbled  way,  laden  with  full 
jugs.  Sant  Trefume,  had  the  springs  that  cleft  the  lower 
rocks  and  made  the  valley  green,  run  dry,  the  people 
would  all  have  perished! 

Ah,  it  had  been  a  summer  of  infinite  desolation!  The 
silk- worms  had  come  to  nothing;  the  vines  had  been  de- 
voured by  the  pest;  the  olives  were  worm-eaten,  and  the 
wheat  had  been  scorched  to  husks  before  it  was  ripe. 
There  had  been  much  sickness  for  a  place  that  lies  so  high 
in  the  breath  of  the  healing  winds.  An  old  man  and  a 
babe  had  been  buried  within  three  weeks  of  each  other, 
in  the  parched  cemetery  under  the  castle  wall.  Men  lost 

89 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

heart  in  the  fields  and  took  to  spending  what  little  money 
they  had  at  the  cafe's.  Some  there  were  who  passed  many 
hours  leaning  over  the  ramparts  to  see  when  the  rain  was 
coming.  But  on  this  August  day  a  cool  wind  blew 
from  Ventour;  and  there  seemed  nothing  in  the  air  to 
account  for  the  disaster  that  befel.  Auzias  had  gone 
down  to  turn  over  a  little  earth,  and  by  so  doing  raise  his 
hopes,  if  it  might  be,  for  the  new  year.  His  wife  had 
been  gleaning  among  the  vineyards  for  early-dropped  fruit 
that  was  still  sound  enough  for  comfits  and  preserves. 
Neither  —  by  advice,  no  doubt  —  had  paid  the  slightest 
attention  to  an  erring  daughter.  It  is  possible  that  they 
might  have  shut  her  in  her  room,  but  that  there  was  neither 
lock  nor  key  to  the  door.  However,  it  would  have  been 
only  for  the  principle  of  the  thing  and  the  punishment ;  they 
knew  that  she  could  not  get  far  or  come  to  much  danger 
on  that  hillside. 

She  watched  them  leave  the  house,  and  she  pushed 
away  the  chest  of  drawers  that  the  night  before  she  had 
dragged  inch  by  inch  to  block  their  entrance,  and  came 
down  into  the  kitchen.  She  heated  herself  some  coffee, 
and  found  bread,  being  very  hungry;  and  then  she  fled 
away  to  the  cavern  cut  out  of  the  rock,  her  mind  being 
wholly  bent  on  recovering  as  much  as  she  could  of  her 
letter. 

It  was  a  bitter  task  lifting  all  the  heavy  stones  that  she 
had  thrown  in  so  lightly.  She  knelt  and  dug  them  out 
with  a  pitiable  cutting  of  fingers  and  breaking  of  nails. 
Scrap  by  scrap,  she  rescued  the  paper  from  its  bed  of 
sand  and  rubble;  and  lying  flat  on  the  rock  pieced  what 

90 


THE  PROMISE 

she  found  together  with  tears.  All  the  morning  she 
was  thus,  but  added  scarcely  an  iota  to  the  sense  of  her 
message. 

At  midday,  she  gathered  up  the  bits  into  a  clean 
handkerchief  that  she  had  brought  for  the  purpose,  and 
treasured  it  safely  under  her  fichu;  so  returned  to  the 
inn,  with  the  high  purpose  of  perishing,  if  need  be,  before 
she  would  give  them  up. 

But  in  the  village  there  was  talk  of  other  matters.  They 
had  been  seeking  her  for  several  hours  in  every  direction. 
On  the  outskirts  she  was  seized  by  one  and  another,  pulled 
this  way  and  that,  and  talked  to  with  so  many  contra- 
dictions, corrections,  and  attempts  at  hushing,  that  she 
was  fairly  bewildered.  Out  of  the  hubbub  of  words 
emerged  only  one  clear  fact,  that  her  mother  was  ill  — 
had  been  found  lying  on  the  floor  by  Father  Gougoulin, 
who  had  happened  that  way,  and  that  nobody  knew  what 
was  the  matter  with  her. 

When  Madeloun  reached  the  Cdbro  d'Or,  she  shook 
herself  free  and  pushed  the  women  back;  but  they  fol- 
lowed her  notwithstanding,  and  crowded  the  little  living- 
room.  On  the  floor  lay  still  her  mother's  basket  where 
it  had  fallen,  and  the  grapes  were  strewn  about.  Nobody 
had  troubled  or  remembered  to  pick  them  up,  and  they 
had  been  already  much  trampled  upon,  and  were  making 
purple  marks  on  the  stones. 

The  first  face  that  Madeloun  realized  out  of  the  crowd 
was  that  of  her  sister-in-law  Emilio,  nursing  a  baby  quite 
unconcernedly  by  the  table. 

"Where's  Jduse?"  asked  the  truant. 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

"  Gone  to  Paradou  for  the  doctor." 

"And  father?" 

"He  is  in  there.  With  Rouseto  —  and  some  old 
women." 

"Why  don't  you  go?" 

"I  thought  there  was  enough.    I  couldn't  do  anything." 

"Am  I  to  go?"  —  the  girl  was  perhaps  asking  herself, 
but  Emilio  answered  with  a  shrug:  "As  you  please.  If 
you  think  you  can  be  of  any  use  ..." 

"Is  it  very  bad?"  was  Madeloun's  last  question.  She 
was  amazed  at  her  own  hardness  of  heart. 

And  Emilio  shrugged  again:  "We  expect  the  doctor 
any  moment."  Then  she  turned  away  to  some  one  else; 
there  was  scant  love  between  the  sisters-in-law. 

A  moment  Madeloun  hesitated,  with  her  foot  on  the 
steep  ladder- like  stairway;  then  she  turned  away  and 
went  out  into  the  garden,  by  the  wall  that  overhung  the 
valley. 

Even  there  she  did  not  escape  the  stir  in  the  house :  the 
buzz  of  voices,  faces  passing  the  upper  window,  the  occa- 
sional clink  of  spoons  and  glasses.  Presently,  old  Zoufc 
came  out  to  her,  busily  tying  knots  in  a  heavy  cord. 

"Why  don't  you  go  up  to  your  mother,  Leloun?" 

And  Madeloun  herself  wondered:  was  it  indifference, 
anger  lingering  from  the  day  before,  or  the  fear  of 
death?  She  sought  a  while  for  her  answer:  "Does  she 
want  me?" 

But  Zoue  was  listening  and  suddenly  bent  over  the  wall  : 
"  Look  —  J6use  is  bringing  the  doctor.  Eh,  well,  I  must 
go  in  and  try  this"  —  she  held  up  her  cord.  "The  doctor 

92 


THE  PROMISE 

laughs  at  such  things,  but  they  are  good  when  the  breath 
is  short  .  .  .  ail  ai!" 

She  toddled  shakily  back,  and  Madeloun  called  after 
her:  "Tell  me  —  if  she  wants  me." 

She  was  not  sure  that  the  woman  heard;  but  she  sat 
still  by  the  wall,  not  interpreting  her  own  mood  — 
possibly  she  was  too  frightened  to  feel  any  other  emotion. 

One  by  one,  Emilio's  children  came  out  to  her,  they,  too, 
awed  by  the  things  they  could  not  understand.  At  last 
came  the  oldest  little  girl,  carrying  the  baby,  that  amid  the 
general  tension  of  nerves  wailed  dismally.  So  she  had  all 
four  of  them,  and  in  comforting  and  soothing  them  she 
almost  forgot  the  trouble  that  had  leaped  upon  the  house. 
They  were  so  restless  that  at  last  she  told  them  little  tales 
under  her  breath,  and  had  them  all  quiet  under  the  spell 
of  the  cockerel  that  insisted  upon  seeing  the  world  and 
made  enemies  of  the  wind  and  fire ;  and  how  he  crowed  in 
the  church  while  St.  Peter  was  saying  mass,  and  put  the 
Apostle  to  shame  before  all  the  congregation  by  reminding 
them  of  his  sin;  and  how  the  naughty  cockerel  came  to 
a  bad  end  .  .  . 

It  was  the  doctor  that  wanted  her,  said  Zoue,  coming 
again;  and  she  left  the  children  to  the  old  woman,  and 
went  within. 

It  was  curious  to  her  how  they  all  stood  aside  for  her, 
and  seemed  to  open  the  way,  until  she  came  within  the 
darkened  chamber  upstairs.  There  were  people  still,  but 
she  did  not  heed  them;  she  saw  only  her  strange,  wild 
mother,  lying  grey  and  motionless,  as  she  had  never  seen 
her  lie  before.  A  great  cry  broke  from  her  lips  and  seemed 

93 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

to  free  the  love  that  had  been  choked  long  years  by  re- 
sentment; she  sprang  forward  and  fell  on  her  knees  by  the 
bed,  burying  her  sobs  among  its  coverings. 

Mere  Borel  opened  her  eyes  and  whispered  something 
which  only  the  doctor  understood.  "She  wants  to  be 
alone  with  the  girl,"  said  he. 

Madeloun  did  not  hear  them  go  —  Jduse  and  his  wife, 
her  sister  Rouseto,  last  of  all  Auzias,  who  seemed  so 
stunned  that  they  had  to  lead  him  away.  She  looked  up 
only  as  the  doctor  spoke  to  her,  with  the  doorknob  in  his 
hand:  "A  few  minutes  —  a  few  minutes  only.  Mind  you 
do  not  cross  her." 

She  was  afraid  —  bitterly  afraid  —  to  be  so  alone ;  but 
her  mother  gave  her  no  time  even  for  a  little  prayer. 

"Come  near,"  she  said,  with  a  feeble  echo  of  her  old 
sharpness.  And  when  the  girl  obeyed,  she  felt  as  if  her 
face  were  scorched  by  the  hot  black  eyes  that  swept  it 
restlessly. 

"I  am  going  to  die,"  said  the  woman  then,  speaking  as 
if  with  great  effort.  "They  will  not  tell  me  so,  but  I  know 
it  is  true.  And  they  have  let  me  send  for  Father  Gou  — " 
It  seemed  that  she  was  too  feeble  to  finish  the  word. 
"He  will  absolve  me  of  my  sins  ...  It  is  strange  — 
when  I  have  been  well  all  my  life  .  .  .  and  I  am  not  old 
yet  ..."  She  seemed  to  collect  her  thoughts  with  an 
effort:  "Promise  me  now  —  while  I  can  still  hear  you  — 
that  you  will  do  his  bidding  in  all  things  ..." 

"Mother  —  mother!"  cried  the  girl,  for  she  understood 
very  well  the  meaning  of  this. 

"Promise"  —  said  the   relentless  voice.    And  Made- 

94 


THE  PROMISE 

loun  remembered  that  the  doctor  had  said  she  must  have 
her  way  now,  yet  could  not  speak. 

"You  have  been  a  cross  to  me  all  your  life  —  give  me 
this  last  comfort"  —  the  voice  was  strangely  entreat- 
ing. 

"Why  have  I  been  a  cross  to  you,  my  mother?"  whis- 
pered the  girl;  but  the  woman  seemed  not  to  have  heard, 
and  continued  her  own  thought:  "It  shall  be  an  expiation. 
Ask  him  how  .  .  .  Enough  —  promise!"  The  word 
was  like  a  sword-thrust. 

"Wait  —  mother  —  wait,"  gasped  Madeloun. 

The  sick  woman  dragged  herself  up  on  one  elbow: 
"Do  you  want  to  kill  me  now?" 

Madeloun  shook  her  head,  blinded  by  tears:  "Is  there 
no  other  way?  Think  —  my  mother,  think.  I  cannot 
understand  it  all  .  .  ." 

"The  priest  understands,"  came  the  reply,  "and  he 
says  it  will  be  an  atonement  .  .  ." 

"But  for  what?  Oh,  for  the  sweet  Virgin's  sake,  my 
mother,  tell  me  why!" 

For  answer  she  had  only  a  slow  shaking  of  the  head, 
and  then  that  terrible  word,  "Promise." 

And  while  she  shrank  and  could  not  speak:  "I  thought 
to  see  you  safely  veiled  .  .  .  and  now  I  cannot  die  in 
peace  —  I  will  haunt  you  .  .  ." 

"But,  my  mother,  you  know  I  cannot  be  a  nun.  You 
know  I  am  promised  to  be  married  .  .  ." 

"I  have  forgotten  all  that,"  said  the  sick  woman,  and 
closed  her  eyes.  Suddenly  she  sat  up,  crying:  "Open  the 
shutters.  I  cannot  see."  And  as  they  creaked  apart, 

95 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

and  her  daughter  came  back  to  her,  she  said  with  her  eyes 
still  shut  and  her  old  grim  smile:  "Marry?  Marry  the 
devil!" 

Then  Madeloun  saw  a  faint  chance:  "But,  my  mother, 
do  you  not  remember  —  we  all  said  he  was  the  devil  ? 
Mother  —  you  were  young  once ;  and  you  were  not  made 
a  nun  against  your  will.  Mother,  if  you  could  think  what 
it  means  to  be  like  me.  I  cannot  help  what  I  feel.  I  am 
as  I  was  made.  And  if  I  promise  you  now  — " 

"Promise"  —  the  voice  had  become  mechanical,  and 
the  eyes  were  still  shut. 

"No!"  cried  the  girl,  in  her  desperation. 

Suddenly,  the  sick  woman  opened  her  eyes  and  began 
to  turn  her  head  from  side  to  side:  "I  cannot  see.  You 
have  not  opened  the  shutters  .  .  .  What  is  this?  Call 
the  doctor  .  .  .  Wait  .  .  .  What  was  it  I  would  have 
you  say?  I  cannot  remember  ..." 

Madeloun  would  have  fled  for  help;  but  her  wrist  was 
seized  in  a  hard  grip.  "Tell  me,"  said  the  raucous  voice, 
"tell  me  what  it  is  I  forget  ..."  She  was  slipping 
down,  but  Madeloun  with  her  free  hand  tried  to  stay  her, 
while  she  herself  flung  an  arm  backwards  over  one  bed- 
post and  held  herself  stiffly.  "The  priest,"  she  gasped, 
"it  is  time.  But  wait  —  not  yet  .  .  ."  She  fought  hard  to 
recover  her  thought. 

And  Madeloun  in  her  turn  strove  to  ward  off  the  curse 
that  threatened  her  young  life:  "My  mother,  if  ever  you 
loved  anybody  when  you  were  young,  have  mercy  on 
us  now  .  .  ." 

The  woman  looked  at  her  strangely.  "It  will  mean 

96 


THE  PROMISE 

many  more  years  of  purgatory  for  me;  yet  they  would 
pass  ...  It  is  for  your  own  soul,  and  you  will  not  be 
saved  .  .  ."  Anger  swelled  and  fought  with  her  failing 
strength.  She  laughed  maliciously:  "With  his  blessing 
goes  mine  —  not  otherwise.  And  your  man  would  be  a 
devil  to  win  that  —  if  he  knew  what  I  know  .  .  .  Let  him 
come  now  —  the  priest." 

But  when  Madeloun  turned  with  a  sense  of  escape,  the 
dying  woman  seized  her  by  the  wrist:  "You  have  not 
promised  .  .  ." 

"O  mother!" 

"I  take  it  now  —  your  solemn  promise  .  .  ." 

"  Mother  —  mother — " 

"That  you  will  put  yourself  in  the  hands  of  your  priest 
and  follow  his  guidance  in  all  things.  Say  yes  —  yes 
—  yes  .  .  ." 

"Yes,"  echoed  Madaleno  faintly,  and  dropped  to  her 
knees  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  hiding  her  face  again.  It 
was  the  sick  woman  herself  who  lifted  her  voice  and  cried 
for  help. 

She  did  not  die  that  night,  or  the  next  —  not  until 
five  days  later;  but  that  was  the  last  word  she  spoke  to 
Madeloun. 


97 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  BIRD  IN  THE  NET 

THEN  with  due  ceremony  six  of  the  women  carried 
Mere  Borel  to  the  church  and  to  the  churchyard,  and  the 
other  villagers  followed,  bearing  lighted  candles  in  her 
honour.  When  all  things  had  been  done  in  seemly 
fashion,  even  to  the  laying  of  the  big  green-and-white  tin 
wreath  on  her  grave,  J6use  and  his  household  moved  in 
and  took  possession  of  the  Cdbro  d'Or;  and  Auzias  and 
his  young  daughter  were  pushed  to  the  wall.  The  old 
man  had  earned  his  olives  and  his  olive-mill  by  the  hard 
labour  of  a  lifetime;  but  the  inn  was  his  wife's,  handed 
down  to  her  from  her  fathers,  and  by  her  passed  on  to  her 
only  son. 

There  was  much  talk  in  the  village  how  the  strange, 
dark  woman  had  been  the  staff  of  BorePs  life;  and  how, 
when  she  was  suddenly  taken  away,  his  back  bent,  his 
jaw  dropped,  he  lost  his  spring  and  the  laughter  in  his 
eyes,  and  became  an  old  man,  content  to  dodder  and 
drowse  in  the  shade.  He  passed  the  management  of  all 
things  over  to  his  son  and  his  bustling  daughter-in-law, 
who  immediately  came  to  accept,  as  a  matter  of  course, 

98 


THE  BIRD  IN   THE  NET 

what  they  owed  to  his  giving;  and  looked  with  questioning 
eyes  at  the  dowerless  girl. 

For  a  short  while  Madeloun  did  not  observe  how  un- 
welcome she  was,  being  absorbed  in  her  own  troubles 
and  dreams;  but  presently  Emilio's  head-shakings  began 
to  penetrate  the  cloud  of  emotions  in  which  she  lived,  and 
she  felt  the  spirit  of  the  words  in  which  her  sister-in-law 
frequently  addressed  her  brother:  "Come  now,  the  girl 
does  not  lack  chances.  She  might  marry  or  turn  nun  or 
go  to  the  devil;  in  any  case,  we  should  be  rid  of  her  —  the 
lump!"  If  Jduse  spoke  at  all  in  her  defence,  it  was  but 
mildly.  He  probably  urged  that  she  be  given  house- 
room  and  food  until  something  turned  up.  And  if  Emilio 
assented,  doubtless  she  grumbled  that  it  was  enough  to 
have  the  old  man  saddled  on  them  for  God  knew  how 
long;  and  upon  Jduse  saying  that  Madeloun  could  look 
after  the  children,  she  would  have  retorted  that  the  chil- 
dren were  long  since  used  to  looking  after  themselves,  and 
that  the  girl  would  not  earn  the  water  she  drank. 

Altogether  it  was  not  many  days  before  Madeloun 
began  to  feel  that  she  was  superfluous  and  unwelcome; 
and  to  wonder  where  in  the  wide  world  she  should  find 
shelter  until  Trillon  came  back  —  if  ever  he  came.  But 
he  would  not  come  .  .  .  and  that  way  lay  desperation. 

She  said  to  Jduse  one  day,  bitterly  and  unexpectedly: 
"  I  think  we  two,  I  and  father,  must  take  to  the  road  and  beg." 

He  looked  surprised,  shrugged,  and  reasoned  with  her: 
"Don't  be  foolish.  You  can  share  our  bread  as  long  as 
we  have  any;  but  with  four  small  children  growing  up, 
every  mouth  costs  money.  The  old  man  must  have  his 

99 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

comer,  naturally;  but  you  —  if  you  get  a  chance  to 
marry — " 

"I  am  betrothed,"  said  she,  "as  you  know."  The 
skin  was  purled  out  on  both  sides  of  the  tight  little  silver 
ring,  "and  waiting  —  waiting  ..." 

He  laughed  brutally:  "You  will  wait  long.  These 
things  have  been  known  before.  Take  Ramoun  —  or 
Peire,  and  have  a  hearth  of  your  own." 

She  turned  away,  with  her  apron  to  her  face,  not  hearing 
a  stir  within  the  room :  "I  can  find  no  way  out  —  not  one." 

"There  is  always  one,  my  child,"  said  Father  Gougoulin 
from  the  doorway;  and  how  he  had  contrived  so  dramatic 
an  entrance,  God  and  himself  alone  knew. 

The  girl  gave  a  little  frantic  twist  of  the  body,  as  of  a 
hare  in  a  net.  At  a  nod  from  the  priest,  Jduse  went  away; 
and  the  old  man,  white-haired,  but  unreverend  by  reason 
of  idleness  and  indulgence,  sat  down  on  the  bench  where 
Madeloun  had  dropped. 

He  let  her  cry  out  her  will,  and  when  she  looked  up, 
wondering  at  his  silence,  he  was  twirling  a  letter  in  his 
hand. 

"I  have  made  all  necessary  arrangements,"  said  he 
quietly. 

She  stared  and  then  she  broke  out  fiercely:  "But  I  will 
not  —  I  will  not  go!" 

He  soothed  her  then  and  began  to  speak  at  length. 
Oh,  he  talked  and  he  talked  well!  It  was  honey  and 
balm  and  oil  —  an  aidli,  a  very  salad-dressing  of  affec- 
tionate interest.  He  used  every  means  of  persuasion 
known  to  logic  or  priestcraft.  He  left  no  stone  unturned, 

IOO 


THE  BIRD  IN   THE  NET 

no  way  of  escape  unblocked;  and  he  added  of  his  grace 
many  pretty  stories  of  the  life  of  Sant  Alan,  the  patron  of 
the  establishment  he  had  in  mind.  And  in  conclusion 
he  asked:  "Why  are  you  waiting?  What  is  your  hope?" 
And  before  she  could  open  her  lips  to  speak,  he  answered 
himself:  "A  chimera."  The  unknown  word,  with  its 
weighty  possibilities  of  meaning,  seemed  to  damp  her 
courage  altogether.  She  hung  her  head,  wordless,  almost 
conquered. 

"Well,  then,"  said  he,  after  a  pause  of  looking  across 
the  valley,  "it  is  settled." 

"And  when  Trillon  comes  back?"  she  faltered. 

"When  —  when — "  he  laughed  easily  —  "well,  when 
he  comes,  if  he  is  all  that  you  say,  let  him  try  to  get  you." 

She  looked  rather  shocked,  and  he  hastened  to  add: 
"  But  the  safety  of  your  soul  is  more  important  than  any 
happiness  you  could  find  in  the  world,  dear  child." 

"Why  is  my  soul  more  important  than  Nanoun's  or 
Jano-Mario's?"  She  felt  that  she  was  making  her  last 
stand. 

"Not  more  important,"  said  he,  "not  more  important, 
but  more  imperilled." 

"Why?" 

He  moved  impatiently.  "There  is  no  need  to  go  into 
that.  Leave  it  for  heads  wiser  than  yourself;  and  be 
mindful  of  your  mother's  wish  —  of  your  promise.  Be- 
sides —  what  else  is  there  for  you  to  do?" 

For  the  moment  she  considered  the  possibility  of  Ra- 
moun  or  Peire.  But  how  was  she  to  bring  them  to  know 
her  need  quickly  enough,  even  if  —  O  God,  no,  it  was 

101 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

impossible!  And  how  could  she  tell  this  old  man,  outside 
confession,  the  thoughts  of  her  heart?  And  she  must 
decide  quickly. 

She  looked  down  at  the  curving  white  road  whence  help 
must  come  if  ever  it  were  to  come:  "O  blessed  Virgin! 
What  shall  I  say?"  she  sighed. 

He  rose  and  stood  looking  down  upon  her.  "There  is 
no  need  to  say  anything  now.  You  promised  what  was 
necessary  when  your  mother  died.  Make  ready  to  come 
with  me  to-morrow;  and  all  your  troubles  will  fall  away 
of  themselves." 

"To-morrow  —  oh,  to-morrow?"  she  cried,  growing 
a  little  pale. 

He  spied  how  she  was  clutching  her  swollen  third  finger. 

"This  must  be  severed,"  said  he,  touching  the  silver 
ring. 

She  hid  it  quickly  as  if  in  defence. 

"Once  the  step  is  taken,"  he  purred,  "there  will  be  no 
more  rebellion." 

"A  year!"  she  entreated.  "Let  me  wait  a  year  .  .  ." 
And  to  herself:  "He  must  come  before  then;  and  if  not 
...  as  well  there  as.  here  .  .  ." 

"It  is  not  convenient,"  said  he,  with  a  jerk  of  the  head 
towards  the  house,  "as  you  see  for  yourself  very  well." 

"Till  the  winter  — only  till  the  winter!" 

"That  would  make  no  difference  to  me;  but  for  Jduse 
it  means  six  months  more  with  an  extra  mouth  .  .  ." 

She  flushed  at  the  brutality:  "J6use  wouldn't  mind; 
and  it  is  my  father's  house  .  .  ." 

"Is  it?  "he  asked.    "Is  it?" 

102 


THE  BIRD   IN   THE  NET 

"And  my  father  —  oh,  where  is  my  father?  He  would 
not  let  them  take  me  away." 

"You  speak  as  though  some  one  were  compelling  you," 
he  said  sternly.  "It  is  all  for  your  own  good.  We  might 
turn  you  out  into  the  street  to  starve." 

"I  could  work,"  she  pleaded,  with  a  flash  of  a  new  idea. 
"I  could  go  out  into  the  world  and  work.  I  am  old 
enough.  I  could  go  into  service  ?"  she  urged. 

"True,"  he  answered,  and  meditated,  and  after  a  pause 
repeated,  "True.  But  —  it  will  not  answer.  You  must 
be  ready  to  come  with  me  at  the  end  of  the  week." 

She  fell  on  her  knees  and  pressed  her  face  against  his 
plump  hand  as  it  lay  on  the  bench.  "A  month  —  only  a 
little  month.  Just  until  ..." 

He  did  not  help  her  out.  "Until  what?"  he  asked 
presently. 

She  could  only  repeat  her  futile:  "A  little  month!" 

He  changed  his  mode  of  attack:  "Should  you  like  to  be 
a  month  more  with  Emilio?  You  are  sadly  in  the  way. 
There  is  not  room  for  you  and  the  children." 

"My  father  gave  them  all  he  had,"  she  said  then,  with 
stormy  bitterness;  and  got  to  her  feet  and  dashed  away 
the  tears,  "all;  and  they  grudge  his  daughter  a  crust  of 
bread.  Not  Jduse  —  no ;  but  that  woman.  I  think  her 
parents  came  from  the  stingy  North!" 

"You  forget,"  said  he.  "It  was  your  mother's  doing, 
and  she  provided  for  you  as  well;  but  you  fight  her  wish. 
You  forget  your  promise — "  he  paused  for  effect  and 
sighed  —  "and  she  not  dead  a  month." 

She  gave  one  long  desperate  glance  at  the  empty 

103 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

road,  then  she  yielded:  "I  will  go  with  you  next  week, 
if—" 

"Next  week?    This,"  said  he  remorselessly. 

"Four  days,"  she  thought  piteously.  "Four  days  — 
what  could  happen  in  four  days?  St.  Julian,  speed  all 
travellers!  —  but  what  could  happen  in  four  days?" 

He  was  kind,  now  that  she  showed  signs  of  tractability. 
"After  all,"  said  he,  "this  is  not  final.  It  is  a  year  of 
testing  —  of  trial,  to  see  whether  you  are  fit  for  the  Holy 
Life.  It  is  a  privilege  accorded  only  to  the  few  —  you 
may  not  be  chosen.  But  for  your  mother's  sake,  you 
must  try  it.  At  the  end  of  the  time,  if  you  are  unhappy, 
you  may  perhaps  come  out  again  .  .  .  and  God  knows 
what  will  be  your  fate." 

She  found  in  his  words  a  gleam  of  hope.  If  she  were 
very  good  and  patient  for  a  year  —  a  long,  dragging  year 
of  four  seasons,  twelve  months  —  and  how  many  days  ? 
—  each  day  a  little  eternity,  she  might  yet  be  saved  from 
a  living  death  to  the  sunshine  and  the  love  that  she  craved. 

"And  then,"  she  said  aloud,  betraying  her  hope  in  her 
voice,  "and  then  —  Trillon — " 

Sudden  anger  flamed  in  the  old  man's  heavy  face: 
"May  his  own  evil  fall  upon  him!  He  is  to  blame  for  all 
this  rebellion." 

"And  if  so?"  she  asked  saucily,  by  no  means  seeing 
her  danger. 

"If  so"  —  he  was  still  purple-red  —  "you  shall  not 
have  him  when  you  do  come  out  —  granting  that  he  ever 
returns,  the  scamp!  Your  mother  left  you  in  my  charge, 
and  I  refuse  absolutely  .  .  ." 

104 


THE  BIRD  IN   THE  NET 

Blindly  she  tried  to  ward  off  the  peril:  "O  father  — 
no  —  no — " 

"And  her  curse  and  mine  be  upon  you  if  ever  you  marry 
that  man!" 

For  a  moment  she  was  stunned  by  this  new  misfortune, 
then  she  clutched  his  sleeve:  "Unsay  it  —  unsay  it  — 
or  I  .  .  ." 

Perhaps  he  saw  in  this  folly  of  hers  a  stronger  leverage 
to  move  her;  certainly  he  admitted  to  himself  that  he 
needed  all  the  help  he  could  gather,  since  he  could  not 
dream  of  telling  her  the  reason  that  he  hugged  close  in 
his  dark  heart.  And  he  was  very  sure  that  he  was  right. 

"Unsay  it?"  he  repeated;  and  the  words  that  came  now 
were  so  hot  and  rapid,  that  she  had  much  ado  to  follow  them. 
"Unsay  it?  They  whisper  here  in  the  village  that  your 
man  is  possessed  of  a  devil.  Eh,  well,  he  will  need  be 
to  get  my  consent  to  such  a  thing,  or  to  do  away  with  my 
curse  if  he  goes  against  me!  Oh,  I  have  heard  stories 
enough  of  the  braggart!  He  can  do  anything,  can  he? 
Well,  let  him  try.  Let  him  make  the  rocks  blossom  and 
the  hills  bear  good  fruit  .  .  ."  He  paused  for  breath, 
staring  across  the  valley;  and  perhaps  what  he  saw  there 
turned  his  thoughts,  for  he  went  on  with  a  sudden  dash 
of  cunning:  "Look  you,  Madeloun,  suppose  we  lay  aside, 
for  the  moment,  the  question  of  your  soul  —  God  forgive 
me  that  I  do  so  even  for  a  good  end !  Put  that  aside,  even 
then  I  cannot  marry  you  to  the  first  penniless  adventurer 
who  comes  this  way,  can  I  ?  Suppose  he  returns  —  and 
that  is  supposing  no  small  thing  —  what  then  ?  Let  him 
settle  in  the  village,  let  him  turn  honest  citizen  and  farm 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

successfully"  —  in  spite  of  himself,  he  chuckled  a  little 
—  "let  him  farm  some  such  place  as  —  well,  the  Pit  of 
Artaban;  and  I  will  begin  to  consider  whether  —  if  you 
show  no  vocation  for  the  religious  life  —  whether  he  may 
be  a  suitable  husband  for  you." 

She  was  not  unaware  of  the  snake  behind  the  flowers, 
the  poison  in  the  honey,  of  his  speech;  but  she  took  it  in 
grave  silence  at  first,  because  she  did  not  know  what  it 
might  mean;  and  when  she  spoke  it  was  only  to  ask  tim- 
idly: "But  why  the  Pit  of  Artaban,  father?" 

She  was  looking  down  and  did  not  see  the  mockery  in 
his  fat  eyes,  as  he  said  pleasantly:  "Because  it  has  never 
been  farmed  from  the  beginning  of  the  world,  and  it  is  a 
good  block  for  the  young  man  to  try  his  wits  upon.  Come, 
now,  I  have  met  you  half-way  and  given  you  several  loop- 
holes. Do  you  agree  to  my  terms?" 

"Yes,"  she  whispered,  because  she  could  not  see  what 
else  there  was  to  say. 

But  she  looked  at  him  so  long  and  gravely  that  he  won- 
dered what  she  was  thinking  about.  He  would  not  have 
been  pleased  to  hear  that  she  was  pondering  upon  the 
curiosities  of  the  Holy  Life  for  which  he  intended  her. 
She  remembered  that  by  reputation  he  was  a  gross  eater 
and  she  had  seen  him  drink ;  she  knew  that  his  house  was 
luxurious,  that  he  received  visitors,  went  sometimes 
abroad  to  Aries,  to  Avignon,  even  further  .  .  .  And  she 
remembered  whispers  among  the  old  women  that  he  had 
once  been  in  a  flourishing  town  parish,  and  had  been 
suddenly  transferred  to  this  place  for  some  grave  fault 
that  no  one  had  mentioned;  and  here  he  had  stayed  on 

1 06 


THE  BIRD  IN  THE  NET 

upwards  of  twenty  years,  forgotten  it  seemed  by  his 
superiors  .  .  . 

Madeloun  did  not  know,  nor  perhaps  did  the  old  women, 
certainly  they  did  not  say,  that  the  little  mountain- village 
of  Castelar  was  a  penitential  living  forced  upon  such 
priests  as  had  been  guilty  of  sin,  yet  not  grave  enough  to 
warrant  that  they  be  unfrocked.  But  the  girl  was  asking 
herself  whether  Father  Gougoulin  led  the  Holy  Life,  and 
why  he  wanted  her  to  be  a  nun.  And  to  neither  question 
could  she  find  an  answer. 

However,  she  clung  to  her  little  hope  for  four  days,  with 
increasing  desperation;  and  at  the  end  of  that  time  it 
seemed  to  her  that  her  heart  was  broken  altogether. 


107 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  RETURN  OF  THE  HAWK 

AND  yet  he  came;  many  months  after  she  had  ceased 
to  battle  for  the  troth  they  had  plighted,  he  came  up  the 
white  winding  road,  singing  as  before,  although  stripped 
of  his  violin. 

It  was  later  in  the  year  this  time;  and  if  the  April  sun 
had  been  hot  then  upon  his  finery,  it  was  the  blistering 
heat  of  May  that,  upon  his  second  coming,  scorched 
through  his  rags. 

It  was  a  forlorn-looking  hawk,  almost  piteous  in  weather- 
worn clothes  of  a  common  greyness.  He  had  moulted 
all  his  fine  feathers  and  yet  —  he  was  picturesque  still. 
It  was  impossible  for  him  to  be  otherwise.  His  flannel 
shirt,  faded  and  clumsily  patched  into  an  artist's  joy,  fell 
open  naturally  over  the  brown  throat;  his  dusty  trousers 
were  fringed  at  the  side  and  flared  abundantly  over  the 
feet.  From  his  peaked  straw  hat  down  to  his  gaily-worked 
sandals,  there  was  in  every  garment  he  wore  a  touch  of 
the  foreign  that  interested  the  countryside  as  he  passed 
by.  The  men  stared  at  a  still  gorgeous  red,  gold-em- 
bossed dagger-sheath  that  swung  by  his  side;  the  women 

108 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  HAWK 

looked  long  at  his  deeply  tanned  face,  with  its  untrimmed 
hair  and  moustache  that  seemed  to  have  bleached  in  the 
sun  as  the  skin  grew  darker.  Of  the  dusty  coat  that  hung 
over  one  shoulder,  it  would  have  been  safe  to  wager  that 
it  lacked  silver-gilt  buttons  —  almost  that  it  was  not  half 
set  out  with  buttons  of  any  sort. 

But  the  state  of  his  attire,  if  it  affected  his  mind  at  all, 
only  increased  the  jauntiness  of  his  step  and  the  flow  of 
his  melody.  He  sang,  he  whistled  to  the  birds,  bee'd  to 
the  sheep  and  goats  of  the  mountains,  and  had  a  little 
friendly  talk  with  every  being  that  he  met. 

When  they  asked  him  where  he  was  going,  he  said  to 
see  his  sweetheart. 

And  when  they  were  bold  enough  to  retort  with  good- 
humoured  chaff,  that  he  was  a  pretty  fellow  for  love- 
making,  he  answered  them  in  all  good  faith  that  he 
hoped  she  would  find  him  so. 

When  they  asked  him  where  he  had  bought  his  clothes, 
he  answered,  nowhere,  that  they  were  partly  exchanges 
and  partly  things  thrust  upon  him  by  those  who  were  not 
above  the  weakness  of  insisting  that  a  man  be  dressed, 
however  hot  the  climate. 

If  they  asked  him  where  he  came  from,  he  said,  the 
country  of  the  sun  where  a  man  might  eat  off  gold  dishes, 
bananas  cooked  on  a  silver-plated  oil-stove;  and  where 
lying  by  a  stream  and  picking  out  diamonds  was  a  common 
afternoon's  amusement. 

Asked  why  he  did  not  stay,  he  said  he  had  had  the  fever, 
and  a  longing  had  come  over  him  to  see  his  betrothed. 

Called  upon  to  show  specimens  of  the  diamonds,  he 

109 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

said  that  he  had  come  away  in  a  hurry  and  hadn't  re- 
membered to  pick  up  any. 

Asked,  was  he  going  back,  he  grinned. 

Asked  further,  if  he  had  made  a  fortune,  he  said  it  was 
too  much  trouble,  when  a  man  could  very  well  do  without, 
provided  he  knew  how. 

If  the  passer-by  had  persisted  thus  far,  he  usually  gave 
up  at  this  point,  and  continued  his  business,  feeling  a 
little  shy  of  the  madman  with  the  dagger. 

So  Trillon  went  on  his  way  among  the  quarries,  and 
shouted  his  jests  at  the  workmen  sawing  their  way  through 
the  snowy  limestone;  and  they,  good  souls!  stopped  and 
wiped  their  brows,  and  tried  to  recall  when  it  was  before 
that  they  had  exchanged  such  banter  with  a  bird  of  strange 
plumage,  not  like  this  one  and  yet  .  .  . 

When  he  came  in  sight  of  the  little  town  crouched  on 
its  high  rock,  he  was  singing: 

"When  the  rose  is  in  blossom 
It  must  be  plucked  —  ah!  ah!" 

He  stopped  and  his  gaiety  was  a  little  overclouded,  as  if  the 
sun  had  been  momentarily  obscured,  for  there  he  was  hav- 
ing his  first  doubt  of  what  he  should  find  above  the  ramparts. 
Then  he  laughed  to  reassure  himself  —  laughed  so  that 
the  caverns  echoed;  he  caught  at  a  tatter  of  his  sleeve  to 
enforce  his  meaning.  His  clothes  had  changed,  but  not 
himself  —  he  would  be  the  same  as  long  as  his  spirit 
endured.  And  she  —  well,  if  he  had  judged  her  rightly 
...  if  not,  there  were  many  girls  in  the  world  —  only 
somehow,  he  had  an  odd  fancy  for  this  one  .  .  . 
He  gave  a  long  whistle,  and  went  on,  narrowing  his 

no 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  HAWK 

yellow  eyes  to  slits,  in  the  vain  effort  to  see  her  hanging 
over  the  wall,  or  sitting  under  the  almond-tree  in  the  inn 
garden. 

At  the  foot  of  the  rock  where  he  had  climbed  before, 
he  paused  and  whistled  a  bar  or  two  of  Magali : 

Allegretto. 


Then  he  stepped  back  in  the  road,  the  better  to  look  up 
and  see  the  answer.  Nothing  stirred. 

He  sang  openly:  "I  will  be  the  hunter  to  chase  thee," 
and  stopped  in  amazement  to  find,  instead  of  Madaleno, 
two  little  children,  whose  heads  just  topped  the  wall, 
staring  down  at  him  curiously. 

He  scarcely  knew  what  thought  impelled  him;  but  the 
next  moment  he  was  scrambling  breathless  from  ledge  to 
ledge,  in  his  ears  the  terrified  screams  of  the  little  ones 
as  they  ran  to  fetch  their  mother. 

He  came  up  over  the  wall  into  a  hubbub  of  voices  and 
a  tangle  of  strange  faces  peering  through  the  door.  As 
he  stepped  forward  with  his  air  of  assurance,  they  fell 
back,  and  one  of  the  children  cried  again. 

"Don't  be  frightened,"  he  called  over  to  them,  "who- 
ever you  may  be.  It's  only  Trillon  come  for  his  sweet- 
heart." 

But  the  children  pushed  further  away;  and  the  intruder, 
staring  hard  to  find  some  one  that  he  knew,  passed  by 
Emilio  and  J6use,  and  would  not  have  seen  Auzias,  had 
not  the  old  man,  with  a  little  spirt  of  energy,  thrust  a  way 

lit 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

for  himself  among  them  all  with  his  stick,  saying  queru- 
lously: "Let  me  see!  Let  me  see!  It  is  I  that  should 
know." 

He  came  and  peered  closely:  "Holy  Virgin,  so  it  is;  but 
she  might  as  well  be  dead  and  buried  for  all  the  good 
she'll  do  you  now!" 

"Hey?"  Trillon  caught  the  old  man  by  the  shoulders 
so  briskly  that  the  clutch  had  to  be  turned  into  a  support 
to  keep  him  from  going  over  backwards. 

And  here  Jduse,  who  hitherto  had  not  found  any  words 
on  the  tip  of  his  tongue,  was  able  to  come  forward  and 
say  angrily:  "Let  my  father  go!" 

Trillon  was  quick  upon  him:  "So!  He's  your  father? 
Well,  I'm  helping  him  to  the  bench"  —  he  made  his 
words  true.  "He  has  grown  old  in  a  year.  And  since 
you  seem  to  be  the  brother,  where's  Madeloun?" 

"Safe,"  said  J6use,  and  could  not  control  a  grin. 

"Not  here  —  be  sure  of  that,"  added  Emilto  shrilly, 
hushing  the  youngest  child. 

Trillon  paid  no  attention  to  her.  "Safe  from  me,  you 
mean?"  he  asked  J6use. 

"Take  it  as  you  like," —  Jduse  shrugged. 

"And  so  I  shall  —  and  fit  it  into  my  plans,"  Trillon 
answered.  He  turned  upon  Auzias:  "What's  hap- 
pened?" 

"My  wife  is  dead,"  said  the  old  man,  his  chin  on  his 
stick. 

Trillon  paused  a  little,  startled  —  somehow  he  never 
took  death  into  his  calculations.  "Well,  and  Made- 
loun?" he  asked  presently. 

112 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  HAWK 

The  old  man  shook  his  head:  "She  is  away." 

"Yes,  yes,  but  where?" 

"Hein?"  Auzias  considered.  At  length  he  said,  with 
a  sort  of  brief  awakening  of  his  old  self:  "The  devil  take 
me  if  I  know!" 

Trillon  turned  again  to  Jouse:  "You  may  as  well  tell 
me  now  as  later.  I  came  to  see  how  she  was  getting  on; 
but  tron-de-bon-goi,  if  you  hide  her  away  like  that,  I'll 
marry  her  out  of  hand!" 

Emilio  broke  into  violent  laughter:  " Oh  —  oh  —  oh  — 
the  vagrant  —  the  lost-bread  —  look  at  him!" 

Trillon  was  undisturbed.  "You  don't  like  my  clothes? 
I  could  make  you  —  but  it's  no  matter  now.  You  shall 
like  them  some  day.  Where  is  Madeloun?" 

He  flung  his  coat  upon  the  bench  and  advanced  upon 
Jduse,  who  backed  away. 

"Don't  waste  my  time,"  says  Trillon. 

But  Jouse  was  on  the  far  side  of  the  table:  "Prove  your 
right  to  ask  the  question." 

"We  are  betrothed,"  said  Trillon,  laying  hand  on  the 
stone,  and  facing  him. 

Jduse  began  to  shake  his  head ;  but  there  was  a  sudden 
whirl  in  the  air,  and  before  any  one  knew  what  would 
happen,  the  invader  was  across  the  table,  and  Jduse  lay 
pinned  to  the  earth  beneath  him. 

The  children  clung  to  their  mother,  but  she  was  too 
paralyzed  to  move  or  scream.  The  old  man  was  open- 
mouthed,  shaking  over  his  stick. 

"  It's  a  trifle,"  says  Trillon,  panting  only  a  little.  "  Out 
with  it  —  where  is  she?" 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

"Near  Montmajour,  in  the  convent  of — " 

Trillon  had  released  his  throat,  for  he  was  already 
purple  in  the  face;  but  continued  to  kneel  on  his  chest: 
"The  convent  of  —  ?" 

"Sant  Alari,"  growled  Jduse. 

Then  Trillon  arose  with  a  disgusted  look,  and  went 
over  to  the  wall  again:  "I  would  not  have  believed  it  of 
her.  She  may  rot  there,  for  all  I  care!" 

But  on  second  thoughts,  looking  shrewdly  from  one  to 
another  —  at  Jduse  mumbling  unholy  words,  with  his 
hand  at  his  maltreated  throat,  at  the  wife  with  her  shifting 
eyes  and  cruel  lips,  at  the  old  man  now  futile  as  a  reed, 
he  had  a  glimmer  of  the  truth  and  laughed :  "  Well,  I  have 
no  doubt  you  helped  her  there;  but  if  that's  all  the  matter, 
we'll  soon  have  her  out.  Now,  if  she  had  been  dead  .  .  . 
yes,  I  think  we  will  have  her  out.  The  little  fool!  No 
wonder  she  did  not  write  —  that  is,  if  she  can  write  —  I 
never  thought  to  ask  her  ..."  With  careful  aim  he 
smashed  a  fly  that  was  tickling  his  wrist,  then  took  off  his 
peaked  hat,  and  for  a  moment  twirled  it  like  a  top  on  his 
finger  ..."  Curious  —  it's  all  in  the  song  too  ...  *  If 
you  turn  white  nun '  —  but  I  have  no  mind  to  be  father 
confessor.  I  can  do  better  than  that  .  .  .  and  it's  only 
a  few  hours'  journey  .  .  ." 

"I'll  have  the  law  on  you,"  muttered  J6use. 

"God's  thunder  and  thunder  of  the  air  and  all  the 
thunder  that  ever  was  made,  shall  I  have  to  crack  your 
heads  together?"  roared  Trillon.  "But  why  should  I 
waste  my  time  gabbing  here?  It's  a  step  or  two  for  a 
pair  of  sandals."  He  swung  one  leg  over  the  wall.  "Run 

114 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  HAWK 

fetch  your  policeman  —  if  you  have  one  .  .  .  but  I  shall 
come  back.  Save  it  up  till  then  —  that's  good  advice. 
Wait  till  I'm  your  brother-in-law." 

He  was  hah0- way  down  the  rock  now;  and  they  all  ran 
and  looked  over. 

"You're  a  pretty  fellow  to  go  a-wooing!"  shrieked 
Emilio,  deeming  the  distance  between  them  enough  for 
safe  vituperation. 

He  stopped  his  descent  and  looked  up  at  her,  laughing: 
"Well,  to  be  sure  I  am  —  and  you  know  it  —  and  so  does 
Madeloun.  God  keep  you  all!  You'll  be  surprised  when 
you  see  me  next." 

But  how  surprised,  neither  himself  nor  any  of  them 
dreamed. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE   KNOCKING  AT  THE  DOOR 

SISTER  MARTO  always  watered  her  flowers  just  before 
vespers,  for  then  the  cloisters  were  most  in  shadow;  and 
no  seraph  on  the  highest  peak  of  Paradise  ever  wore  a 
more  blessedly  serene  expression  than  did  this  ruddy  yet 
frail-looking  nun,  as  she  sprayed  her  roses,  her  colum- 
bines, her  daisies,  her  geraniums,  her  lilies,  her  heartsease, 
her  pansies,  her  nodding  fuchsias,  her  trails  of  myrtle,  her 
cyclamen,  her  marguerites  —  all  the  treasure  of  colour 
and  perfume  that  clouded  the  old  Romanesque  columns. 
No  mother  ever  touched  her  child  with  more  loving  ten- 
derness than  Sister  Marto  uncrumpled  the  twisted  leaves 
and  plucked  away  the  dead,  and  sought  anxiously  for  signs 
of  mildew,  pest,  and  noxious  insects.  Early  and  late  she 
found  some  excuse  for  loitering  there.  In  the  morning, 
when  the  swallows  chittered  and  swooped  in  a  perpetual 
game  of  catch-me-if-you-can,  from  one  gable  to  another  of 
the  old  yellow-tiled  roof,  dashing  across  the  open,  perch- 
ing saucily  on  the  very  arm  —  nay,  on  the  very  head  — 
of  the  stone  Virgin  and  Child  that  guarded  the  rockery  in 
the  centre  of  the  court,  the  song  of  Sister  Marto  intoning 

116 


THE  KNOCKING  AT   THE  DOOR 

the  graces  of  Mary  accompanied  her  pacing  there,  scarcely 
louder  but  even  sweeter  than  the  bird -notes;  and  again  at 
evening,  when  the  ecstasy  of  the  nightingales  outside  drifted 
into  the  cloisters  through  the  door  that  opened  from  the 
rose-garden,  she  scattered  a  rain  like  soft  dew-drops,  from 
the  well  at  the  north  comer  of  the  cloister,  and  sang  a 
little  chant  of  the  joys  of  Paradise. 

In  the  small  sisterhood  of  Sant  Alari  there  was  room 
for  jealousy;  but  among  all  the  twenty  nuns  was  none 
who  did  not  love  Sister  Marto. 

Even  the  novice  from  Castelar,  who  after  nearly  a  year 
at  the  convent,  had  not  altogether  given  over  sulking  on 
the  stone  bench  by  the  church  door  —  even  Madaleno 
could  not  find  other  than  soft  answers  to  the  nurse  of  the 
flowers.  Indeed,  of  all  the  nuns,  this  was  the  one  she 
loved,  to  whom  she  had  found  it  possible  to  confide  some- 
thing of  her  trouble  and  her  young  despair. 

There  came  an  evening,  perfect  even  for  Provence  in 
the  spring-time,  when  the  air  was  so  soft  that  it  touched 
the  skin  like  an  exquisite  balm.  Sister  Marto  was  busy 
with  a  lily  that  drooped  without  apparent  reason,  suffering 
it  might  be  from  a  gnawing  at  the  bulb.  She  was  so  in- 
tent and  so  anxious  that  she  ceased  to  sing;  and  the  silence 
stirred  Madaleno  from  a  dream,  as  she  stood  with  a  hand 
on  each  of  the  two  columns  between  which  she  was  staring. 

"Sister  Marto,"  she  began,  and  unheard,  spoke  more 
sharply:  "Sister  Marto  .  .  ."  As  the  nun  looked  up: 
"  Haven't  you  finished  yet  ?  I  want  to  talk  to  you.  Your 
flowers  —  always  your  flowers  —  I  believe  you  love  them 
as  if  they  were  children!" 

117 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

Sister  Marto  came  up  to  the  other  side  of  the  archway, 
brushing  away  a  frown  of  anxiety  over  the  health  of  the 
lily,  but  not  resisting  the  temptation  to  pluck  at  dried 
leaves,  and  search  for  invaders,  as  she  passed  along  the 
narrow  path. 

"Sister  Marto,"  said  the  girl,  "do  you  know,  unless  I 
do  something  about  it,  in  a  few  weeks  I  shall  be  a 
nun  like  yourself?" 

The  other  stared  a  second,  then  broke  into  laughter, 
spreading  out  her  hands :  "  And  am  I  such  a  monster  then  ?  " 

"You  are  sweet  —  sweet,"  said  Madaleno,  "but  you 
have  found  your  right  place.  You  have  the  vocation. 
Me?  I  might  as  well  try  to  be  a  spider!" 

"My  dear  child— " 

"Who  is  always  forgetting  her  prayers?  Forgetting 
to  take  part  in  the  services?  Dropping  asleep  when  she 
is  called  to  sit  up  with  the  sick?  Good  Sister  Marto,  it's 
all  one  long  penance  for  me,  penance  for  duties  forgotten, 
penance  for  penance  forgotten,  and  triple  penance  for 
forgetting  that  I  had  forgotten  to  do  penance.  My 
thoughts  are  always  elsewhere,  and  I  am  always  waiting 
and  longing"  —  she  dropped  her  voice — "for  one  who 
never  comes.  I  have  been  patient  —  as  patient  as  I  could 
be  —  for  nearly  a  year.  As  for  the  Mother"  —  passion 
vibrated  in  her  tone — "I  hate  her  as  you  hate  slugs — " 

11  Chut  —  chut—  " 

"And  I  am  afraid  of  her." 

"There  is  no  reason,  dear  child." 

"Oh,  I  could  kill  her!"  — the  girl's  fingers  closed  over 
her  cross  as  if  to  seek  help  against  the  temptation. 

1x8 


THE  KNOCKING  AT   THE  DOOR 

"And  now  you  are  wicked  and  will  have  to  confess," 
said  Sister  Marto  regretfully. 

"Confess  that  I  could  kill  her?  The  sin  shall  stay  and 
blacken  my  soul  forever  before  I  will  do  that!  But  when 
I  think  how  the  time  is  coming  when  I  must  fight  her 
again,  I  am  sometimes  afraid  she  will  look  at  me  —  in 
her  way  —  so  hard  and  steady,  you  know  how  —  until  I 
have  said  the  vows  without  knowing  that  I  spoke.  And 
then  there  would  be  no  undoing  —  none — "  she  mur- 
mured to  herself.  "Not  even  for  him  —  when  he  comes." 
She  continued  aloud  pensively:  "It  would  not  be  the  first 
time  that  she  has  made  me  do  things  against  my  will;  and 
then  I  wake  up  and  find  them  accomplished.  I  don't 
want  to  wake  up,  Sister  Marto,  and  find  my  hair  gone.  .  .  . 
My  hair  is  pretty  ..." 

"Chut  —  chut!"  said  the  older  woman.  "You  must 
not  think  of  such  things  here." 

Then  passion  was  unchained  in  Madaleno's  black  eyes : 
"I  think  of  nothing  else  all  the  day  and  sometimes  all  the 
night ;  and  I  cry  —  Jesu,  how  I  cry !  Nobody  knows  — 
for  fear  that  he  will  not  find  me.  And  I  thought  when  I 
first  came  that  I  had  no  hope!" 

"One  does  when  one  is  young,"  said  the  nun  softly, 
and  for  a  moment  it  seemed  to  Madeloun  that  perhaps 
she  might  understand. 

"And  so  it  is  a  sin  to  keep  me  here  at  all,"  continued 
the  young  logician,  "and  it  is  you  who  love  me  and  would 
not  have  me  commit  mortal  sin,  who  must  help  me  to 
get  away." 

"Saints!"  cried  Sister  Marto,  clutching  her  rosary; 

119 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

then  she  quietly  considered  the  situation  for  a  moment  or 
two,  before  she  said:  "I  will  not  help  you  to  get  away. 
But  suppose  you  go  alone  —  what  then?  —  where  then?" 

Madeloun  shrugged:  "No  matter.     It  is  a  big  world." 

"And  you  have  no  fear?" 

"Yes,  I  am  afraid;  but  not  so  afraid  as  of  being  shut  up 
here  all  my  days.  I  hate  the  place  and  every  one  in  it  — 
except  you  and  your  flowers,  Sister  Marto." 

"No,  there  is  much  in  it  that  you  do  not  hate  —  Sister 
Claro,  the  portress,  for  example,  and  Sister  Oursulo,  and 
Sister  Aulaio;  and  the  garden,  and  the  birds,  and  the  sun; 
and  the  music  when  we  sing,  and  the  little  children  that 
are  brought  to  be  healed.  You  do  not  hate  even  the  soup 
for  dinner,  or  Zefir  the  hound.  There  is  much  that  you 
love,  and  more  that  would  bring  you  joy  and  peace,  if 
once  you  could  bend  your  stubborn  heart  to  the  will  of 
God." 

"  But  how  do  I  know  that  it  is  the  will  of  God  ?" 

"Chut  —  we  leave  that  to  those  who  are  wiser  than 
ourselves.  Our  part  is  only  to  kneel  and  ask  the  grace 
of  perfect  obedience.  It  was  your  mother's  will,  the 
bidding  of  your  priest  —  what  can  you  do  against  those 
two?  In  time,  you  will  find  your  content;  but  for  some 
of  us  it  takes  years  ..." 

"For  you?"  asked  Madeloun  abruptly. 

"Forme." 

"And  why?" 

Sister  Marto  winced  a  little  at  the  question;  but  after  a 
moment  said  quietly:  "I  was  betrothed  and  he  died. 
Then  I  came  here.  It  is  now  eighteen  years." 

120 


THE  KNOCKING  AT   THE  DOOR 

"And  when  did  you  find  your  content?"  The  unwit- 
ting cruelty  of  youth! 

"Child,  child,  you  ask  many  questions"  —  there  was 
the  shining  of  tears  in  the  blue  eyes.  "Thanks  to  the 
Holy  Mother,  I  have  found  it.  And  so  will  you." 

"Listen,"  said  Madeloun.  "Mine  is  not  dead.  He  is 
out  in  the  world  —  somewhere  —  in  South  America.  I 
do  not  well  know  where  that  is;  but  it  is  very  far  away; 
and  I  could  never  read  the  name  of  the  place.  But  look." 
She  drew  out  from  under  her  habit  a  tiny  linen  bag  that 
she  had  worked  all  over  with  forget-me-nots,  as  Sister  Marto 
saw  with  eyes  that  grew  dim  again  in  the  seeing.  "Look." 
She  showed  the  torn  fragments  of  the  letter,  yellowed  with 
dust  and  tears;  and  knowing  now  the  words  on  every  piece 
by  the  size  and  shape  of  it,  she  quickly  found  the  name 
of  the  place  in  two  fragments,  which  she  held  together. 

"Read,"  said  she;  but  the  nun,  when  she  had  spelled 
it  out,  was  no  wiser  than  herself. 

"Listen  again,"  entreated  the  girl.  "I  cannot  have  a 
light  in  my  cell,  but  whenever  there  is  moon,  do  you  know 
what  I  do  ?  I  crawl  out  of  bed  and  I  spread  these  on  the 
floor  —  though  it  is  cold  to  lie  there  —  you  cannot  think 
how  cold  — " 

"Ah,  yes  —  yes  —  yes,  I  know,"  murmured  the  other. 

"And  I  try  to  piece  them  together  so  as  to  make  out  all 
the  sense ;  but  I  never  can,  for  some  of  them  are  lost,  and 
through  my  fault." 

"How  lost?"  came  the  gentle  question;  but  Madeloun 
hung  her  head  and  would  not  answer  that. 

"And  you  will  help  me?"  she  entreated. 
121 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

"Togo  to  — this  place?" 

"Ah,  no,  for  I  could  never  find  it  —  and  he  may  not  be 
there  now.  But  to  get  out  into  the  world  and  be  free  to 
wait  for  him.  I  could  work  —  oh,  I  should  work!" 

Sister  Marto  was  scarcely  as  practical-minded  as  her 
name-saint;  but  still  she  asked:  "And  how  get  work? 
and  where?  and  what  could  you  do?  and  how  should  he 
find  you  again?" 

"  Oh,  that  —  all  that  —  later"  —  was  the  impatient 
answer.  "He  would  find  me  anywhere  —  at  the  end  of 
the  world.  But  how  escape?" 

Sister  Marto  smiled  at  this  midsummer  madness,  and 
asked:  "You  have  told  the  Mother  something  of  this?" 

"When  I  first  came  and  she  cut  my  ring  off,  I  wept 
for  weeks  and  weeks,  but  she  was  deaf  as  these  columns. 
So  I  settled  in  my  own  mind  that  I  would  wait  —  wait 
until  it  was  near  the  time.  But  I  thought  he  would  have 
come  by  now,  and  that  is  why  I  am  so  desperate.  There  is 
only  you  to  help  me  —  you  must  help!" 

"What  could  I  do?"  asked  Sister  Marto,  with  trouble 
on  her  smooth  fair  forehead.  "It  is  Sister  Claro  who 
has  charge  of  the  gate.  And  ladders  —  the  gardener  has 
ladders,  but  I  don't  know  where  he  keeps  them;  and  should 
I  help  you  to  risk  your  life,  and  turn  you  out  into  the 
world  at  night  —  alone  —  penniless?  I  could  never  be 
absolved  of  that  sin." 

"Then  must  I  die  here?"  stormed  Madeloun. 

But  before  Sister  Marto  could  utter  the  gentle,  "We 
don't  die  of  such  things,"  that  hovered  on  her  lips,  the 
answer  came  from  elsewhere,  in  the  form  of  a  tremendous 

122 


THE  KNOCKING  AT  THE  DOOR 

and  furious  knocking  at  the  outer  gate,  where  hung  a 
cracked  bell  that  was  often  jangled  long  before  it  reached 
the  ears  of  Sister  Claro  in  her  lodge. 

"Saints  defend  us!  What  is  that?"  cried  Sister  Peu- 
petio,  who  just  then  reached  the  turn  of  the  cloister  with 
two  vases  of  fresh  flowers  for  the  altar.  She  set  her 
precious  burdens  carefully  down  upon  the  stone  bench, 
and  stood  with  her  hands  on  her  hips;  and  the  three  women 
looked  at  one  another,  as  the  knocking  recommenced, 
with  a  blustering  bravado  that  struck  terror  into  two  of 
these  gentle  souls. 

But  Madeloun  flushed  hot,  and  ran  down  the  corridor 
into  the  open  air,  and  along  the  high  wall,  with  its  heavy 
mantle  of  red  and  creamy  roses,  so  came  in  front  of  the 
church,  whence  one  can  see  the  great  gateway  at  the  end 
of  a  long  straight  avenue  of  pines.  The  nuns  followed 
more  slowly,  but  moved  by  irresistible  curiosity.  By  the 
time  they  were  all  looking  down  the  road,  they  saw  a 
strange  sight  between  the  far-stretching  flower  borders, 
where  high  above  the  pink  of  the  roses  was  flushing,  and 
low  on  the  earth  the  irises  lay  in  great  purple  masses 
along  the  path,  too  heavy  with  their  own  richness  to  stand 
erect.  They  beheld  the  aged  Sister  Claro,  wrinkled, 
dignified,  rheumatic,  with  her  skirts  drawn  high  and  her 
veil  floating  behind  her,  flying  towards  them  as  if  in 
mortal  terror  of  pursuit. 

"Oh,  for  the  love  of  Mary,"  she  panted,  "call  the 
Mother  quick!"  She  dropped  upon  a  bench,  trying  to 
recover  her  breath,  while  Sister  Peupetio  took  example 
from  her  haste  and  fled  away. 

123 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

"What  is  it ?  Oh,  what  is  it ?"  entreated  Sister  Marto, 
wringing  her  hands  in  helpless  sympathy  with  the  agita- 
tion of  the  portress. 

Suddenly,  Madaleno  laughed ;  and  the  two  Sisters  looked 
up,  struck  dumb  to  behold  her  tearing  off  her  white  head- 
dress and  collar,  and  flinging  them  far  among  the  irises. 
And  as  she  stood  before  them,  with  her  black  hair  rippling 
about  her  rosy  face,  and  the  dimples  in  her  cheeks  dancing 
with  the  lights  in  her  eyes,  it  seemed  to  both  good  women 
that  some  sprite  had  entered  the  body  of  the  girl  whom 
they  had  known  as  pale,  sulky,  rebellious  .  .  . 

But  before  they  could  utter  a  sound,  she  had  gathered 
up  her  long  robe  and  fled  away,  not  after  Sister  Peupetio, 
but  into  the  wilderness  of  garden  behind  the  chapel;  and 
the  mysterious  words  that  rang  in  their  ears,  together 
with  a  strange  tinkle  of  laughter,  were:  "I  think  it  is' 
Trillon!" 


124 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE  VIGIL 

BUT  it  was  long  that  she  waited,  peeping  from  the 
boskage  of  the  garden. 

The  knocking  at  the  door  was  not  repeated.  She  saw 
the  Mother  Superior  walk  past  the  two  Sisters  she  had 
just  left,  her  serene  and  icy  dignity  untroubled  by  their 
turmoil  of  spirit.  And  when  the  beat  of  her  footsteps 
had  died  away,  there  was  no  sound  except  the  insistent 
and  almost  continuous  call  of  a  cuckoo.  But  in  any  case 
Madeloun  was  too  far  from  the  gate  to  have  heard  the 
play  of  voices  there.  She  was  tempted  to  follow,  but  had 
a  fear  of  moving.  Sister  Marto  returned  within  the 
cloister;  Sister  Claro  hobbled,  with  injured  emphasis  on 
her  usual  infirmities,  in  the  wake  of  the  Superior;  the 
moments  passed  and  the  sun  set,  while  Madeloun,  un- 
coiffed,  dishevelled,  with  both  hands  against  her  breast, 
and  every  heart-beat  showing  in  her  cheeks  —  awaited 
her  doom. 

It  came  in  the  slow  returning  footsteps  of  the  Mother 
Superior,  no  whit  less  serenely  dignified,  no  whit  more 
self-satisfied,  than  usual.  Before  the  church  she  paused 

"5 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

and  looked  towards  Madeloun  hidden  in  the  shrubbery, 
and  the  girl  shrank  further  into  the  shadow;  then  she 
stopped  to  examine  a  cluster  of  banksia  buds,  patted 
Zefir,  the  house-dog,  said  a  few  words  to  him,  and  entered 
the  church-door. 

And  was  this  to  be  the  end?  Madeloun  scarcely  knew 
that  she  had  moved  until  she  found  herself  running  along 
the  narrow  tortuous  paths,  catching  her  skirt  on  the 
thorny  branches,  impatiently  wrenching  it  loose  and 
running  again,  regardless  whether  Sister  Claro  might  be 
watching  from  her  little  lodge.  Frantically,  she  thrust 
open  the  wicket  and  stared  down  the  dusty,  dusky  road. 
It  was  empty. 

Then  she  shook  the  high,  wooden  gate  and  twisted  her 
hands  vainly  against  its  bolt  and  bar.  No,  there  was  no 
mad  chance  in  her  favour;  it  had  not  been  left  unlocked. 
She  fell  on  her  knees  and  sobbed;  and  if  Sister  Claro,  in 
the  little  lodge,  setting  out  bread  and  salad  for  her  supper, 
did  not  hear  this  pitiful  crying,  she  must  have  been  too 
deaf  to  warrant  her  office  of  portress.  But  she  made  no 
sign  —  no  sound  .  .  .  and  the  walls  were  six  metres  high, 
or  more,  and  crested  with  broken  glass;  and  there  was  but 
the  one  gate  .  .  And  even  if  she  found  a  ladder  high 
enough  and  could  carry  it  to  the  wall,  and  climb  up  to 
the  top,  how  could  she  get  down  the  other  side  without 
such  injury  as  would  make  her  to  be  brought  back  to  the 
hospital  and  nursed  to  health  again,  with  secret  triumph 
on  the  part  of  those  who  sought  her  captivity?  If  one 
might  die  thus  —  it  would  be  different;  but  when  one  was 
young,  one  did  not  die  .  .  .  And  Trillon  had  come  and 

126 


THE   VIGIL 

gone  away.  .  .  What  had  they  told  him  then?  .  .  .  But 
had  he  come?  .  .  .  Ah,  she  had  small  doubt  there!  It 
was  not  only  the  prompting  of  her  heart  that  had  raised 
expectation  to  the  fever  point  these  last  days;  it  was  her 
certain  assurance  that  no  other  man  in  the  world  would 
have  knocked  thus  —  with  that  degree  of  righteous  in- 
dignation and  furious  resolve  —  except  him  who  had 
called  himself  the  Falcon  of  Avignon.  ...  He  had  come 
for  his  own  —  but  he  had  gone  away  and  —  what  had 
happened  ? 

For  a  moment  she  felt  emboldened  by  the  mere  passing 
of  his  spirit  to  march  up  the  avenue,  and  enter  the  re- 
fectory where  the  Sisters  would  be  having  supper  now, 
and  before  them  all  demand  of  the  Mother  Superior  to 
tell  her  the  truth. 

But  she  lingered  —  and  lingered  —  perhaps  awaiting 
a  return,  a  sign  —  and  suddenly  the  air  was  dark  and  a 
light  shone  through  Sister  Glare's  window.  Supper  would 
be  over.  The  moment  had  passed.  Oh,  what  could  she 
do  now  but  creep  into  the  church  and  pray  —  pray  hard  — 

The  night  wind  chilled  her  and  hastened  her  reluctant 
footsteps.  Near  the  church  she  stopped  short,  choking 
back  a  scream  of  terror  at  a  sudden  whiteness  on  the  dark 
earth;  but  the  terror  was  turned  to  tears  when,  as  the  wind 
blew  a  lock  of  hair  across  her  cheek,  she  remembered 
that  this  must  be  her  discarded  head-dress.  As  high  as 
had  been  her  hope  —  oh,  the  shame  of  to-morrow ! 

But  rash  youth  must  often  walk  the  bitter  way  of 
humility;  and  Madeloun,  remembering  the  face  of  the 
Mother  Superior  as  she  had  paused  near  this  spot  to  pat 

127 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

the  hound,  crushed  the  dewy  sweetness  of  the  irises  be- 
neath her  feet,  and  stooped  to  gather  up  these  emblems 
of  her  soul's  servitude. 

The  refectory  windows  were  black;  and  she  was  hungry, 
poor  child !  She  remembered  that  there  was  to  have  been 
the  salad  she  liked  best.  But  they  had  all  supped  and 
gone  their  ways,  and  left  her  alone  with  her  trouble.  She 
had  no  desire  now  to  pray;  she  thought  only  of  getting  to 
her  cell  and  weeping  out  the  night,  before  she  should 
come  to  judgment  on  the  morrow.  If  only  her  heart 
would  break  .  .  . 

She  stole  like  a  shadow  along  the  empty  corridors  and 
into  her  room,  with  a  little  gasp  of  relief  when  the  door 
opened  to  her  turning.  Somehow,  she  had  feared  it  might 
be  barred  against  her. 

There  is  a  certain  ceremony  through  all  the  wild  sorrow 
of  youth;  in  its  most  extravagant  moments,  it  is  rarely 
quite  without  self-consciousness.  Be  sure  it  was  no 
feigned  grief  that  caused  the  young  Madeloun  to  fling 
herself  on  her  little  pallet  and  toss  her  arms  into  the  air 
with  a  stifled  outcry  for  help;  but  yet,  she  would  have 
been  more  comfortable,  even  in  her  very  genuine  trouble, 
had  she  undressed  and  gone  to  bed  properly;  and  she  did 
not  wish  to  be  more  comfortable.  She  wished  —  uncon- 
sciously, no  doubt  —  to  realize  to  the  full  the  complete 
misery  of  her  position;  and  with  a  great  rioting  and  waste 
of  youthful  vitality,  she  did  so. 

The  night  passed  on,  and  the  moon  rose  and  whitened 
the  terrace  outside  her  window.  She  heard  the  three 
church-bells,  centuries  old  each,  strike  the  time  singly 

128 


THE   VIGIL 

and  in  unison;  and  it  was  a  matter  for  faint  comfort,  or 
at  least  for  pride,  that  she  had  not  missed  an  hour  up  to 
twelve,  nor  a  quarter  up  to  —  when  all  at  once  her  ear  was 
attracted  by  an  extraordinary  sound  outside  her  window. 
It  was  not  frog  or  cricket  or  bird,  but  it  contained  elements 
of  the  notes  of  all  three;  and  it  sounded  appallingly  near. 
She  set  one  foot  on  the  floor  and  listened;  and  just  as  she 
had  decided  that  she  had  imagined  the  noise,  she  heard 
it  again,  far  away  down  the  terrace.  She  had  a  momen- 
tary dread  of  what  might  come  in  upon  her  from  the  still 
moonlight;  and  she  ran  to  the  window  and  closed  the 
shutters.  Even  so  she  could  hear  the  sound  ever  louder 
and  louder,  but  with  frequent  pauses,  as  if  the  strange 
beast  that  uttered  it  were  feeling  its  way  cautiously,  or 
pausing  for  some  unknown  purpose. 

With  a  sudden  terror  of  ghosts,  Madeloun  ran  to  her 
door  to  call  for  help,  and  turned  the  knob;  but  it  resisted 
her  utmost  efforts.  If  she  had  not  been  barred  out,  cer- 
tainly she  was  locked  in.  Ah!  they  expected  her  to  try 
to  escape  then? 

A  sudden  exultation  tingled  in  her  blood  —  a  return  of 
her  intuition  that  he  had  been  there,  that  he  would  come 
again.  She  lost  all  fear,  and  flung  wide  the  windows. 
The  night  breeze  streamed  in  with  the  moonlight  and 
lifted  her  tangled  hair. 

Nearer  came  the  hoarse  cry,  but  there  was  no  other 
sound.  She  could  not  see  anything  in  her  little  looking- 
glass;  but  with  frantic  fingers  she  fumbled  for  her  brush 
and  comb,  and  shook  her  untidy  attire  to  rights;  then 
pressed  against  the  window-frame  that  reached  but  a 

129 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

little  below  her  breast,  she  held  herself  still,  but  in  the  full 
blaze  of  light,  waiting  —  waiting. 

A  shadow  crossed  the  moon  and  the  room  was  dark; 
it  retreated  and  her  dazzled  eyes  were  again  filled  with 
light;  then  it  fell  for  the  second  time,  and  the  curious  low 
croak  was  at  hand;  and  again  it  retreated,  and  the  moon 
blazed  upon  her  half-smoothed,  riotously-curling  hair, 
her  brilliant  eyes,  and  hands  clasped  as  in  prayer  against 
the  habit  that  she  had  robbed  of  all  its  nun-like 
attributes;  and  at  last  a  third  time  the  shadow  fell,  and  she 
was  drawn  up  and  up,  out  of  the  darkness  of  her  cell,  up 
and  up,  it  seemed  into  the  very  heart  of  day;  and  a  Warm 
stillness  enfolded  her,  and  she  was  quiet  after  all  her 
weeping.  Quiet  —  a  long  time  —  as  he  was  quiet,  until, 
with  remembered  caution,  he  just  lifted  her  from  her  feet 
and  carried  her  into  the  shadow  of  the  great  plane-tree 
that  faced  her  window. 

There  she  stirred  and  clung  to  him  sweetly,  with  soft 
frantic  laughter  that  for  a  time  robbed  her  of  all  speaking; 
and  when  the  words  came,  they  were  only : 

"And  the  noise  was  —  the  noise  was  — ?" 

"The  Falcon  of  Avignon,"  said  he,  and  kissed  her,  as 
on  that  far-away  day  of  their  first  meeting. 


130 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  FALCON  AND  THE  NIGHTINGALES 

WORDS?  What  words  were  needed?  What  could 
words  say  ?  Trillon  began  to  laugh.  "  I  thought  I  should 
find  you  that  way,"  said  he. 

Madaleno  freed  one  hand  and  pressed  it  across  his  lips, 
with  the  result  that  he  kissed  it  and  laughed  the  more. 

"They  will  hear"  —  she  whispered,  looking  over  her 
shoulder. 

"Let  them  hear.  I  should  rather  like  the  Mother 
Superior  to  come  upon  us  now.  I  have  you  and  I  shall 
keep  you.  What  can  she  say?" 

"Do  you  mean,"  asked  Madeloun,  "that  I  am  to  go 
away  with  you?" 

"What  else  should  I  mean?" 

She  considered  this  a  moment,  then:  "It  was  you  this 
afternoon?" 

" Sarnipabibune,  who  else?" 

"But  you  did  not  come  in,"  she  insisted,  a  bit  piqued 
to  remember  that  all  her  woe  might  have  been  spared. 

He  drew  her  closer  still,  and  patted  her  cheek  lovingly, 
yet  with  a  tinge  of  rebuke:  "Ah,  Lounloun  —  Leleto  — 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

Leleto,  it  was  not  my  way.  You  have  yet  to  learn  the 
ways  of  Trillon." 

"Tell  me  about  it."  She  lost  future  and  past  in  her 
present  content;  but  for  the  moment  curiosity  lifted  a 
peak  above  the  sea  of  her  bliss.  What  had  happened 
between  him  and  the  Mother  Superior  ? 

"Tell  what?  It  was  simple.  I  knocked.  You  heard 
me?  I  intended  you  to  hear.  They  would  not  open 
more  than  a  wicket  the  length  of  a  nose.  It  would  have 
taken  time  to  batter  down  the  gate.  I  demanded  your 
Mother  Superior.  She  came  —  pecaire !  —  as  fierce  as 
Artaban!  I  let  her  talk;  and  when  she  had  done,  I  made 
her  a  bow  which  I  hope  she  saw  through  the  little  hole. 

"'Heaven  save  you,  madame,'  said  I.  'I  have  no 
doubt  you  are  a  holy  woman;  and  I  have  heard  some  talk 
of  holiness,  too,  being  native  to  Avignon,  the  city  of  the 
Popes.  But  with  all  your  holiness  you  have  not  divined, 
perhaps,  that  I  had  an  object  to  gain  in  making  this 
disturbance,  as  you  call  it.  Have  I  your  leave  to 
explain?' 

"So,  her  words  being  gone  for  the  moment,  I  began: 
'When,  madame,  you  did  me  the  honour  to  receive  my 
promised  wife  under  your  roof — ' 

"'Hey?  What?'  cries  she;  "and  I  could  see  her  stoop 
to  peer  through  the  wicket.  And  by  that  alone  I  judged 
that  your  precious  brother  and  his  wife  had  not  turned 
me  off  on  a  false  scent,  when  they  declared  that  you  were 
here;  but  I  wanted  to  be  sure. 

"'You  had  no  idea,  it  may  be,  that  she  would  trespass 
upon  your  hospitality  so  long;  however,  in  the  end  I  am 

132 


THE  FALCON  AND  THE  NIGHTINGALES 

come  to  take  her  away,  as  soon  as  ever  the  banns  may 
be  read.' 

"This  she  pretended  not  to  understand,  so  it  was  my 
turn  to  screw  my  eyes  to  the  wicket;  and  a  good  look  I 
had  at  her  as  I  said : '  I  mean  Madaleno  Borel,  who  before 
your  silk- worms  —  if  you  have  any  —  begin  their  cocoons 
will  be  Madaleno  Trillon.'" 

"Wicked — oh,  wicked!"  cooed  the  girl,  and  for  a  time 
stopped  his  discourse  altogether.  "  But  suppose  —  sup- 
pose the  Mother  should  come  to  her  window  now — ?" 

"Which  is  hers?" 

"There"  —  she  pointed. 

"Come!"  He  made  a  movement  as  if  to  draw  her 
thither  and  continue  his  love-making  in  the  very  face  of 
the  Church. 

But  she  was  too  earnest  to  be  overruled:  "Remember, 
you  do  not  know  her,  and  I  —  sweet  Virgin !  You  cannot 
think  what  she  may  be  able  to  do." 

"Nor  can  she  think  what  I  may  be  able  to  do.  She 
defied  me  royally  to  come  and  take  you  if  I  could ;  but  she 
never  once  denied  that  you  were  here  —  which  was  all  I 
wanted." 

"'Madame,'  said  I,  'now  that  we  have  warned  each 
other,  it  becomes  a  game.  God  be  with  you !  My  thanks.' 
It  is  not  the  way  of  Trillon  to  do  things  under  the  rose;  and 
if  she  is  sleeping  peacefully  at  this  moment,  it  but  shows 
her  lack  of  sense.  Your  holy  women  are  not  always 
lacking  in  shrewdness  ..." 

"Ail  ail"  cried  Madeloun,  suppressing  a  little  wail. 
"I  had  forgotten." 

133 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

"  Forgotten  what  ?  But  tell  me  after.  Back  into  your 
cell  now  and  collect  what  you  want.  We  must  take  the 
road  so  as  to  get  somewhere  by  morning." 

"  A  i  I  ai ! "  she  sobbed  on  his  shoulder.  ' '  You  will  have 
much  to  do.  The  world  is  between  us;  and  they  are 
meaning  to  make  me  take  the  veil." 

"How  then?"  asked  Trillon  brusquely.  "You  will 
not  come  to-night?" 

"Not  to-night  nor  any  other  night  until  you  have  done 
what  cannot  be  done;  or  my  mother  will  curse  us  from  her 
grave,  and  we  shall  never  prosper." 

"Hah!"  says  Trillon,  and  released  her,  to  rub  his  hands 
together.  "What  is  this?" 

"Have  you  come  back  very  rich?"  she  asked  wistfully. 

"Not  so  rich  as  when  I  went  —  but  what  of  that?  It 
needed  time.  And  was  I  to  wait  forever  for  another  look 
at  the  sweetest  face  on  the  earth?  Heaven  save  me,  you 
might  have  married  another !  And  look  you  —  I  was 
right." 

Her  lip  drooped,  but  he  was  quick  to  continue: 

"If  it  is  only  money  that  you  want,  my  pretty,  eh, 
well—" 

"But  soon?    In  three  weeks  —  or  four?" 

He  pulled  his  falcon  tufts  and  thrust  out  his  chin: 
" Soon?  In  three  days  you  shall  have  a  handful." 

"But  even  so,"  she  sighed,  "it  would  be  of  no  use.  I 
promised  my  mother  when  she  died  that  I  would  do  as 
Father  Gougoulin  bade  me,  and  he  has  put  me  here  ..." 

"Then  I  must  see  Father  Gougoulin,"  said  Trillon 
calmly,  "no  more  than  that." 

134 


THE  FALCON  AND   THE  NIGHTINGALES 

"But  he  would  never  let  me  out  again  ..." 

"We  shall  not  ask  his  permission,"  interrupted  the 
lawless  one. 

"And  even  if  he  did,  he  swore  in  his  anger  that  I  should 
never  marry  you  —  oh,  he  swore  it  so  strongly  that  there 
is  no  breaking  ..." 

" Leave  it  all  to  me,"  said  Trillon.  "This  is  not  women's 
work." 

"But  he  said  we  should  be  cursed  by  himself  and  my 
mother  .  .  ." 

"He  seems  to  be  a  meddling  old  fool;  but  he  can  be 
made  to  unsay  it." 

"I  don't  see  how,"  she  insisted  piteously. 

"My  pretty  one,  your  head  was  not  made  for  such 
matters.  But  let  us  inquire  into  this  thing  a  little.  What 
reason  did  he  give  for  keeping  you  here?" 

"My  own  good,"  she  said,  between  tears  and  laughter. 
"He  wants  to  save  my  soul." 

"It  sounds  disinterested.  But  it  is  not  enough.  No 
other?" 

"Eh,  well,  there  was  no  money  for  me.  Nanoun  and 
Rouseto  had  their  dowries,  and  Jduse  took  what  was  left. 
That  was  my  mother's  doing  —  it  was  all  hers,  you  know. 
My  father  had  only  what  he  earned  ..." 

"Money,"  says  Trillon,  "I  could  always  do  without. 
Let  us  pass  over  that.  There  must  be  a  deeper  reason 
somewhere  ...  we  shall  find  it.  Meanwhile,  I  get 
you  away  .  .  ." 

"No,  no,"  says  she.  "You  must  make  him  unsay  the 
curse.  And  yet  you  cannot,  for  it  was  a  strong  one,"  she 

135 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

continued  piteously.  "The  miracles  you  would  have  to 
do  —  you  would  need  to  go  to  a  witch  .  .  .  and  even 
then  .  .  .  Oh,  he  said  terrible  things  about  making  the 
rocks  blossom,  and  I  know  not  what,  before  he  would 
give  way.  And  he  pretended  that  it  was  all  for  my  good, 
and  he  said  that  if  I  could  not  undertake  the  religious 
life,  he  would  let  me  go  free  again.  Only  the  Mother  will 
hear  no  word  of  that  now  —  I  cannot  tell  you  how  she 
makes  me  feel.  But  he  said,  too,  that  if  you  should  come 
back  and  live  in  the  town,  and  turn  farmer  like  anybody 
else  .  .  ." 

"Why  all  this?"  asked  Trillon  suddenly. 

"I  don't  know.  But  he  said  that  when  you  could  farm 
the  Pit  of  Artaban  .  .  ." 

"And  what  is  that?"  he  interrupted  again. 

"Waste  land  —  sheer  rock,"  she  said,  in  a  tone  of  utter 
discouragement.  "You  could  never  make  a  living  there." 

"My  pretty,"  said  Trillon,  "do  not  slander  me.  So 
far  I  have  made  a  living  without  great  difficulty  —  cer- 
tainly, I  am  very  much  alive.  But  if  your  priest  likes  to 
prescribe  where  I  am  to  continue  the  process,  eh,  well  — 

"I  think,"  she  said  mournfully,  "it  would  be,  as  easy 
as  to  walk  like  a  fly  up  the  sheer  cliff  of  Briazon  .  .  ." 

"Where  is  that?"  he  asked. 

"Ah,  it  is  the  side  of  the  castle  where  the  Marshal  of 
France  had  his  armies  for  a  month  with  ladders  and 
engines,  and  at  the  end  of  the  time,  I  have  heard  my  father 
tell,  he  had  to  march  away  again  because  he  could  not  get 
a  foothold.  .  .  .  Could  you  climb  up  there?" 

"Undoubtedly,"  says  Trillon.     "And  can  I  surmount 

136 


THE  FALCON  AND  THE  NIGHTINGALES 

these  obstacles?  My  dear  child,  trust  me;  I  am  not  a 
Trinquetaille  for  nothing." 

She  felt  that  the  case  was  hopeless,  and  yet  she  drank 
in  his  words  as  if  they  had  been  the  utterance  of  a  saint. 
But  when  he  fell  silent  —  in  reflection,  but  by  no  means  in 
despair  —  she  suddenly  wrung  her  hands  against  her 
breast,  with  a  full  renewal  of  her  trouble. 

"Not  even  you  —  not  even  you — ' 

"Hopo!  Tajort!  Presently — presently,"  he  said  at 
last,  in  a  voice  no  less  strong  than  usual.  "By  your 
sacred  good  sense!  Look  now,  I  leave  you  here  for  two 
weeks  —  two  weeks  and  a  half  —  longer.  Be  good  —  be 
patient,  be  cheerful — even  if  I  do  not  return  until  the  last 
day — and  not  till  midnight.  Nothing  can  happen  till  then. 
There  are  other  novices,  hein?  What,  two?  Ah,  well, 
defer  to  your  holy  Mother  in  all  things;  and  at  the  last 
moment,  if  not  before,  your  hawk  will  swoop  and  away 
you  go,  the  congregation  a-stare,  and  the  Mother  Superior 
wringing  her  hands  .  .  .  Eh,  what?  Smile!" 

"You  will  work  all  these  miracles?" 

"I  and  no  other." 

"But—" 

"No  but." 

"My  mother's  curse." 

"No  curses." 

"My  conscience  — " 

"Shall  be  as  white  as  the  collar  and  coif  they  want  to 
strangle  you  with." 

"And  yours?" 

"Huh!"  —  his  laugh  was  shorter  than  usual.     "The 

137 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

Trinquetailles  sailed  up  the  Rhone,  in  their  skiffs,  their 
barges  —  I  know  not  what  —  a  thousand  years  ago  and 
more  —  old  Mercadou  once  told  me.  And  they  burned 
and  robbed  and  killed,  and  did  as  they  pleased.  But  I 
have  no  more  liking  than  you  for  the  curses  of  the  dead. 
They  spoil  the  sunshine  by  which  we  live.  Chut!  the 
nightingale!  Come,  sit  on  the  parapet  here  in  the  shade 
and  be  still;  and  he  will  come  so  close  that  he  will  sing 
almost  on  your  shoulder.  And  so  you  may  imagine  that  it  is 
your  hawk  trilling  to  you,  for  when  all  is  said  the  croak 
of  the  falcon  is  not  so  sweet  a  note." 

The  moon  rose  high  and  higher;  and  the  nuns  slept 
undisturbed — all  but  one,  who  rose  towards  midnight  when 
the  nightingales  were  holding  full  chorus,  enthroned  on 
every  tree,  rose  softly  and  went  to  her  window,  watching 
the  loveliness  of  the  sky  and  the  world  beneath  it.  But 
her  own  thoughts  were  busy  and  she  heard  not  —  or  if 
she  heard,  regarded  but  as  the  stirring  of  the  breeze  — 
the  voice  of  Trillon  telling  of  the  far-away  lands  he  had 
seen,  and  of  the  perils  he  had  risked  and  escaped,  before 
he  came  home  again  to  his  love.  Sister  Marto  turned 
away  from  the  flower-scented  moonlight,  and  knelt  before 
the  shadow  in  which  hung  her  crucifix,  praying  —  pray- 
ing— 

Once  only,  a  pleasant  sound  outside  made  her  lift  a 
startled  face.  It  sounded  like  a  soft  peal  of  girlish  laughter 
and  reminded  her  vaguely  of  Madaleno.  It  was  how  the 
girl  would  laugh,  if  ever  she  laughed.  The  poor  child! 
To-day  they  had  been  cruel  to  her  —  reluctantly  cruel, 
at  the  bidding  of  justice,  personified  in  their  Mother;  they 

138 


THE  FALCON  AND  THE  NIGHTINGALES 

had  let  her  wander  supperless  in  the  dusky  garden;  and 
when  she  came  in,  they  had  withdrawn  from  the  possible 
chance  of  meeting  her  and  speaking  a  word  of  comfort  to 
her  sore  little  heart;  and  they  had  locked  her  in  with  her 
trouble  .  .  . 

She  half  rose  from  her  knees,  this  good  Sister  Marto, 
with  the  thought  of  tempering  justice  with  mercy  —  just 
a  peep  in  upon  the  poor  little  novice  —  to  see  that  she  had 
not  cried  herself  into  a  fever;  but  she  remembered,  with  a 
sigh,  that  the  key  of  Madaleno's  cell  would  be  hanging 
in  the  bunch  attached  to  the  Mother's  girdle,  remembered 
and  sank  back  to  her  praying.  But  she  added  one  little 
orison  not  in  the  chaplet: 

"  O  Mary,  flower  of  women,  let  not  her  miss  the  greatest 
joy  of  this  life,  if  it  be  thy  will.  Amen." 

And  who  shall  say  that  this  humble  incantation  did  not 
speed  Trillon  in  the  working  of  his  miracles? 


139 


CHAPTER  XV 

TRILLON  GROWS   RICH 

I  AM  afraid  to  say  whether  or  not  the  morning  star  had 
risen  by  the  time  that  Trillon  had  departed  the  way  he 
came  —  the  balcony,  the  plane-tree,  a  knotted  rope,  a 
breach  in  the  broken  glass  that  topped  the  wall  —  do  not 
ask  how  it  came  there  —  and  the  arms  of  an  almond-tree, 
growing  high  on  a  mound  above  the  road.  With  a  sudden 
whoop,  which  he  may  have  learned  among  the  Indians 
of  the  wild  parts  where  he  had  been,  he  settled  into  a 
steady  tramp  towards  —  could  you  guess?  —  Avignon, 
the  world  of  sausage-shops  that  he  had  once  thought  to 
have  quitted  forever.  And  as  he  went,  one  could  not  have 
supposed  that  he  bore  upon  his  head  and  sturdy  shoulders, 
the  weight  of  a  miraculous  achievement,  to  be  wrought 
within  a  few  weeks,  for  he  sang  in  concert  and  in  rivalry 
with  all  the  hedge-birds  that  he  met.  And  even  when  the 
mistral,  in  sharp  descent  from  the  Alps,  powdered  his 
mouth  and  throat  with  white  dust,  he  but  gaped  and 
swallowed  several  times  and  was  as  fresh  as  ever.  His 
thirst  he  quenched  at  wayside  fountains,  but  when  he  had 
hunger  he  stopped  at  a  village  shop  for  a  sou's  worth  of 

140 


TRILLON  GROWS  RICH 

bread  —  from  which  it  is  clearly  to  be  inferred  that  he 
was  not  altogether  penniless. 

Arrived  at  Avignon  no  less  jauntily  than  he  had  begun 
the  day's  journey,  he  marched  under  the  long  line  of  plane- 
trees  round  the  ramparts  until  he  came  to  the  quarter  of 
the  sausage-shop,  where  he  found  the  former  belle  of 
Aries,  exactly  as  he  had  presaged  all  the  way,  by  her 
window  before  the  counter  that  her  scrubbing  had  ren- 
dered as  spotless  as  a  bed  of  snow,  slicing  off  two  sous' 
worth  of  a  fat  roll  of  pork  for  an  urchin  in  a  belted  black 
smock. 

"Hey,  aunt,"  says  he,  cocking  his  hat  in  a  way  that 
must  have  been  familiar  to  her  from  years  back. 

"Saints!"  cries  the  poor  old  lady,  and  goes  on  cutting 
and  cutting  and  cutting,  until  the  urchin's  eyes  grew  wide 
with  wonder  at  the  value  he  was  to  get  for  his  money. 

"You  have  a  word  of  welcome  for  a  dutiful  nephew?" 
he  asked  politely;  but  still  dumb,  she  went  on  cutting 
sausages. 

"Hoi,  then,  if  no  welcome,  you  have  at  least  sausage," 
—  he  helped  himself  so  bountifully  from  her  cutting  that 
the  urchin  had  no  more  than  his  proper  share  after  all. 

"  It  is  good,  your  sausage,  aunt,"  quoth  Trillon,  finding 
and  drawing  forth  an  extra  chair  from  behind  the  counter. 
"  I  remember  it  very  well.  It  was  always  the  sort  I  liked 
best.  And  do  you  still  buy  your  pig  in  the  Place  Pie,  and 
how  much  do  you  give  for  it  ?  Excuse  me,  I  have  waked 
and  walked  a  night  and  two  days;  and  I  am  hungry" — he 
helped  himself  to  more.  "Ah,  it's  no  bad  thing  you  make 
out  of  this  shop,  aunt.  Lucky  for  you,  my  father  had  a 

141 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

prodigal  son  —  hein  ?  How  much  do  you  make  a  year  ? 
And  how  much  goes  to  fatten  your  priest's  pocket  —  hein  ? 
Oh,  no  need  to  look  at  me  that  way.  Yes,  yes,  I  am  poor. 
I  grant  it  freely  —  as  poor  as  my  priest  should  be,  if  I  had 
one.  I  grant  that  freely.  I  am  poor,  but  not  ashamed 
of  it.  I  am  poor;  but  I  have  had  adventures,  aunt  — 
adventures  enough  to  have  whitened  the  hair  of  any  other 
man.  And  there  is  work  before  me  to  be  done  quickly. 
I  cannot  go  walking  about  the  country  in  a  pair  of  dusty 
sandals.  I  must  return  like  a  prince." 

"Return  where?"  asked  the  poor  woman,  with  a  gleam 
of  hope,  as  she  despatched  the  urchin  about  his  business. 

"Return  whence  I  came,"  said  he;  and  in  the  reaction 
from  her  fear  and  amazement,  she  began  to  wipe  the  tears 
from  the  corner  of  each  eye  alternately. 

"But  to  return  like  a  prince  —  pecaire!  that  needs 
money;  and  indeed,  I  have  promised  my  sweetheart  a 
handful.  Therefore"  —  he  concluded  simply  —  "I  come 
to  you." 

"  Go  to  the  bare  rocks  for  water "  —  she  wrung  her 
hands. 

"A  spring  could  be  found  —  an  unfailing  source  —  by 
one  who  could  work  the  miracle,"  he  hinted;  but  added 
openly:  "My  aunt,  I  could  do  with  a  little  wine." 

Awaiting  no  answer,  he  passed  through  the  small 
dining-room  behind  the  shop  to  the  kitchen,  rummaged 
the  dresser  and  the  cupboards  and  returned  empty- 
handed,  remembering  then  that  in  his  father's  time  the 
keys  would  be  safe  in  her  apron  pocket,  but  now  that  she 
lived  alone  —  Iron  de  Vlrl  —  who  would  have  thought  —  ? 

142 


TRILLON  GROWS  RICH 

There  was  a  shadow  on  his  face  when  he  came  back  — 
a  shadow  that  she  rather  dreaded.  Perhaps  on  the  whole 
it  was  best  not  to  anger  him. 

"Wait,"  said  she  amiably,  " there  is  not  much  doing 
now.  You  shall  have  wine  and  a  little  dejeuner.  After 
all,  we  are  blood-relations." 

His  face  cleared:  "Hah!  the  fatted  calf  —  is  it  so?" 

He  waited  patiently  while  she  clattered  pots  and  sauce- 
pans in  the  kitchen;  but  he  made  a  quiet  round  of  the 
shop,  took  good  note  of  all  the  changes  since  his  father's 
time,  and  drew  his  own  conclusions. 

When  the  dejeuner  came  it  was  not  unworthy  of  his 
acceptance.  He  had  had  his  sausages,  you  see,  and 
enough,  as  she  undoubtedly  judged;  but  she  brought  in 
ripe  olives,  which  he  always  preferred  to  the  green,  and 
bread  and  butter;  and  afterwards  a  little  omelette  and 
a  bottle  of  Chdteau-neuj-du-Pape,  some  haricot  salad,  a 
treasure  of  a  steak  under  a  mound  of  chip  potatoes,  a 
little  Roquefort  and  a  handful  of  dates. 

"Already  I  feel  like  a  prince,"  he  assured  her,  as  he 
dropped  the  last  stone  on  the  dish,  and  leaned  back  replete. 
Of  that  small  luncheon  not  enough  was  left  to  have 
gorged  a  fly.  What  especially  troubled  the  frugal  soul 
of  the  old  body  was  the  patent  fact  that  she  must  go  forth 
again  and  purchase  for  her  own  eating.  Her  nephew  had 
always  been  an  Artaban  in  working  his  way  through  food. 

However,  like  the  pious  woman  she  was,  she  awaited 
his  pleasure  meekly,  only  setting  forth  her  knitting  in  order 
to  waste  no  time. 

"My  good  aunt,"  said  he,  with  condescension,  "you  sit 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

very  snug  in  my  place;  and  as  for  myself  I  shall  not  trouble 
to  turn  you  out  ..." 

"Trouble,  indeed?"  cried  she,  and  dropped  her  work, 
grown  suddenly  all  red  and  shrill. 

"I  shall  not,"  he  repeated  calmly. 

"Blessed  Virgin!  When  my  poor  departed  brother  — 
the  Saints  repose  his  soul!  —  left  me  every  sou  that  he 
had  in  the  world  except  five  hundred  francs  that  he  threw 
away  upon  a  rascally,  ungrateful  — "  she  pattered  away 
more  rapidly  than  at  her  ave*s. 

"Quite  so"  —  he  nodded  gravely*  "But  I  want  some 
money  now." 

"You  have  no  right  — " 

"I  waive  it." 

"You  have  none!" 

"Quite  so.  You  speak  truly.  I  waive  it.  But  I  want 
some  money.  And  I  will  have  it."  He  spoke  with  gentle 
good-humour.  "But  I  don't  wish  to  resort  to  extreme 
measures." 

"Measures?"  she  shrieked.     "What  measures?" 

He  shrugged. 

"Measures?    You  cannot  turn  me  out?" 

"Did  I  say  I  would,  dear  aunt?  Leave  the  measures 
to  my  discretion.  But  I  want  some  money." 

She  wept  again  and  whined:  "And  to  whom  in  the  world 
but  my  nephew,  for  all  his  faults,  should  I  leave  the  little 
that  I  have?" 

"To  your  priest,  of  course;  and  to  him  you  will  leave  it, 
I  have  no  doubt.  But  what  I  want,  I  want  now — this 
morning"  —  his  good-humour  matched  his  patience. 

144 


TRILLON  GROWS  RICH 

"Merciful do  you  suppose  me  rich? 

" So-so  —  so-so"  —  he  wagged  his  head  from  side  to 
side. 

"You're  a  pretty  ragamuffin  to  come  — " 

"I  know  it,  aunt.  It  is  time  all  that  should  be  changed. 
As  I  said  before,  I  must  return  like  a  prince." 

She  wrung  her  hands  in  her  apron:  "What  with  the 
taxes  and  the  falling  off  of  trade,  and  competition,  and 
inspection  —  it's  scarcely  a  bone  I  can  save  for  the  soup- 
pot." 

"I  want  a  thousand  francs,"  was  his  answer. 

Her  mouth  opened,  but  no  sound  came. 

"Yes"  —  he  continued  meditatively  —  "I  think  a 
thousand  will  serve  my  purpose.  Or  twelve  hundred? 
It  might  be  safer.  But  no,  I'll  take  the  chance  —  for  the 
sake  of  the  chance.  A  thousand  and  a  pair  of  hands  and 
three  weeks  —  or  more  —  hah!" 

A  fear  crossed  her  mind  that  he  was  mad;  and  whence 
should  she  summon  help?  Perhaps  he  divined  her 
thought,  for  he  rose  suddenly  and  blocked  the  doorway: 
"Come,  come,  aunt,  we  waste  time;  and  I  have  none  to 
spare.  Your  good  dejeuner,  while  it  made  a  man  of  me, 
yet  devoured  a  portion  of  my  time  too;  I  must  be  off  by 
the  Marseilles  express." 

She  pricked  her  ears.  Marseilles?  Here  then  was  a 
faint  hope  that  he  might  be  going  far?  She  sighed 
heavily,  and  unlocked  the  drawer  that  contained  her 
money-bag.  It  chinked  with  silver  as  she  laid  it  on  the 
tray  before  her;  and  reaching  in  she  drew  forth  a  handful 
of  coin,  which  she  counted  before  him  until  she  reached 

145 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

the  sum  of  fifteen  francs,  after  which  she  put  back  what 
remained  in  her  hand. 

"It  pinches  me  —  pinches  me,"  she  moaned,  "but  for 
your  father's  sake  — " 

He  made  no  move  to  take  up  the  coins.  "It  is  a  good 
beginning,"  said  he,  "and  now  the  gold." 

"Gold?  Gold?"  —  she  clutched  her  bag  in  extremity 
of  terror.  "I  have  no  gold  here." 

"To  be  sure  not  —  being  a  woman  of  sense.  But  you 
have  it  elsewhere,  locked  safely  away.  Fetch  it,  or  I  shall 
miss  my  train.  And  I  tell  you  in  a  word,  my  aunt,  that 
I  shall  not  go  away  without  it." 

There  was  something  threatening  about  his  bulk;  and 
the  gendarmerie  was  far  away;  and  no  neighbour  was  to 
be  seen.  He  had  been  abroad  and  come  back  with  foreign 
ways  —  and  he  had  been  a  devil  of  a  boy  ...  He  might 
kill  her  and  make  away  with  the  whole  —  before  anyone 
came  —  that  would  be  worse  —  no  gold  —  no  life.  .  .  . 
Better  less  gold,  with  life  to  enjoy  it.  She  reached  into 
her  bag  and  drew  out  a  small  purse,  which  she  opened  .  .  . 

Somehow  it  was  in  his  hands.  He  counted  out  the 
contents :  one,  two,  three  louis,  two  ten-franc  pieces  — 
and  ranged  them  with  the  silver. 

"It's  for  the  shop,"  she  moaned. 

"I  know.  Change  for  a  hundred-franc  note,"  he  said 
briskly.  "But  time  fails.  My  total  now  is  ninety-five 
francs;  I  lack  nine  hundred  and  five." 

"But  I  have  not  got  them!"  she  wailed,  spreading  out 
her  palms,  with  such  energy  of  voice  and  figure,  that  he 
was  forced  to  believe  her. 

146 


TRILLON  GROWS  RICH 

"Ah,  so?    Not  in  the  house.    You  have  banked  it  all 

—  the  rents,  the  profits  from  the  gardens  —  added  it  to 
the  little  sum  that  was  there  a  year  ago  —  hein  ?" 

She  pleaded  for  grace:  "Trillon,  I  am  an  old  woman; 
I  shall  die  soon." 

Her  hypocrisy  angered  him  and  settled  her  fate.  He 
became  very  short.  "Your  cheque-book,"  says  he,  and 
she  dared  not  hesitate  or  whimper.  "Now  —  write  — 
my  name  —  so-so — "  He  had  found  the  pen  and  even 
guided  a  little  the  shaking  fingers  that  threatened  a  blot 
with  every  letter.  "  So-so  —  and  now  —  nine-hundred  — 
francs;  and  the  number — so:  fr.  900.  Steady — steady 

—  or  your  name  will  look  like  the  crawl  of  a  fly  half 
drowned  in  ink." 

When  the  operation  was  finished,  he  pressed  the  blot- 
ting paper  across  the  cheque  and  carefully  detached  it 
from  the  book.  Then  he  became  magnanimous. 

"  You  see,  I  let  you  off  the  five  francs,  my  aunt.  Rebate, 
for  cash  —  hah !  No,  I  won't  take  it  out  of  the  money- 
bag, although  I  might  and  more  —  by  stretching  out  my 
hand  — " 

"Robbery!  robbery!"  she  gasped  weakly. 

"Chut  /"  —  he  cowed  her  into  a  mere  trembling  heap  of 
fear.  "  If  you  talk  of  robbery,  you  know  this  is  mine  by 
right,  and  all  that  remains  in  the  bank,  on  which  you 
won't  starve  for  a  hundred  years  or  so.  You  know  it 
would  have  been  mine  if  you  had  not  filled  my  father's 
ears  with  evil  tales.  True?  You  know  how  many  of 
them  were  true.  You  slandered  me  to  the  poor  old  man, 
and  that's  why  your  priest's  pockets  are  so  fat.  You 

147 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

think  to  save  your  soul  so?  That  is  why  you  come  out 
with  your  dejeuner  and  all?  But  I  don't  want  the  rest 
of  the  money;  keep  it  and  my  blessing."  He  opened  the 
door.  "I  don't  think  it's  at  all  likely  —  it  is  not  at  all 
likely  —  that  I  shall  return  —  still,  no  promise,  mind. 
Better  no  promises.  One  never  knows.  But  I'll  leave 
you  in  peace,  if  I  can.  Adieu,  my  aunt,  and  many  thanks." 

The  poor  old  creature  sobbed  audibly,  how  far  with 
compunction,  and  how  far  at  the  loss  of  her  treasure,  it  is 
best  not  to  inquire.  But  she  touched  the  heart  of  Trillon, 
and  he  returned. 

"Look  here,  old  woman,"  said  he.  "What's  the  good 
of  going  on  like  that  over  your  rubbishy  francs  ?  Come, 
now,  I've  let  you  off  a  few;  I'll  do  more.  Here's  your  gold 
again.  I'll  keep  the  silver  and  the  cheque  and  make  it  do." 
Cr  —  link  —  link  —  he  flung  on  the  table  the  three  louis 
and  the  two  ten-franc  pieces.  "Here's  eighty  francs  — 
a  clean  gift  to  cheer  your  heart.  God  be  with  you!" 

He  got  away  quickly,  feeling  that  the  whole  success  of 
his  enterprise  hung  in  the  balance;  a  few  moments  more 
and  he  would  have  returned  the  cheque  with  the  silver, 
and  had  his  walk  and  his  dejeuner  for  his  pains. 

As  soon  as  his  shadow  had  ceased  to  darken  the 
shop,  she  was  minded  to  shriek  for  help;  but  when  she 
spied  the  gold  on  the  table,  in  her  blurred  mind  it  seemed  to 
her  that  the  loss  had  been  made  good.  Then  she  looked 
at  her  open  cheque-book  and  got  up  to  run  after  the  thief; 
but  memories  came  and  laid  a  finger  on  her  lips.  She  sat 
down  and  wept  with  helpless  rage;  and  so  she  was  found 
by  a  neighbour  coming  in  to  buy  a  Lorraine  cheese. 

148 


TRILLON  GROWS  RICH 

Trillon  went  straight  to  the  bank  and  took  eight 
hundred  francs  in  notes  and  a  hundred  in  gold,  folded  and 
tucked  them  away,  and  stepped  out  briskly  to  the  station. 
"After  all,"  said  he,  "a  simpleton  could  be  rich,  if  he  had 
no  conscience.  So  far  I  have  kept  my  word.  A  handful 
of  money  for  my  Leleto  ?  Two  handfuls,  if  it  were  all 
in  gold;  in  silver,  a  lapful.  Courage  then!  Forward! 
We  are  on  the  way." 


149 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE  SECOND  RETURN  OF  TRILLON 

THE  advent  of  Trillon  "up- there"  in  the  guise  of  prince, 
has  become  a  matter  of  history.  To  be  sure,  it  entailed 
delay  at  Aries,  for  the  purpose  of  rehabilitation,  and  he 
deplored  the  loss  of  every  moment,  in  the  urgency  of  the 
task  before  him.  On  the  other  hand,  he  felt  the  necessity 
of  making  a  good  impression,  on  the  occasion  of  what 
might  perhaps  be  called  his  state  entry;  and  when  he  was 
equipped,  no  unprejudiced  mind  would  have  been  able 
to  say  that  the  result  did  not  justify  the  pains. 

The  choice  of  a  costume  was  difficult.  His  own  taste 
inclined  him  to  velveteen  or  corduroy,  although  he  wa- 
vered between  white  and  a  brown  much  darker  than  his 
earlier  golden  array.  The  tailor,  however,  told  him  that 
he  was  worthy  of  better  things.  One  who  had  travelled 
so  widely  must  look  farther  than  his  native  land,  etc.,  etc. 
He  advised  an  English  check,  in  yellowish  brown,  with  a 
thread  of  green,  the  latest  thing  in  Paris;  and,  indeed, 
after  some  contemplation,  Trillon  was  unable  to  resist 
the  seduction  of  the  colour  of  his  own  curling  hair-tufts. 
Inasmuch,  the  tailor  continued,  as  one  rarely  met  with 

150 


THE  SECOND  RETURN  OF  TRILLON 

travelled  men  in  Aries,  he  would  let  him  have  the  clothes, 
including  a  proper  green  waistcoat,  for  a  mere  considera- 
tion. He  advised  tan  boots  and  gloves,  a  green  tie,  and 
on  the  whole  —  yes,  on  the  whole  —  a  white  straw  hat 
with  a  green  band.  "Then,"  he  summed  up,  "all  the 
world  will  take  you  for  a  prince,  travelling  incognito  as 
an  English  lord." 

And  Trillon  was  rather  pleased  at  the  fancy. 

The  only  thing  that  troubled  the  tailor  was  the  absence 
of  suitable  gold- work;  no  prince  ever  dressed  so  plainly. 
If  monsieur  would  permit  him  to  recommend  an  expert 
in  all  such  matters  of  taste,  a  few  doors  down  the  street, 
and  an  honest  man,  being  his  own  brother.  .  .  .  Ah,  if 
monsieur  would  but  permit  him  to  show  the  way  .  .  .  ? 

In  the  end  Trillon  found  himself  the  richer  by  an 
amber  scarf-pin,  a  silver  watch  with  a  gold  chain  from 
which  dangled  several  seals  of  chaste  design,  and  a  curious 
ring  set  with  a  mottled  stone  which  would  bring  luck, 
according  to  the  tailor's  brother,  and  which  certainly  gave 
a  princely  impression.  He  was  the  poorer  by  some  rolls 
of  bills;  but  then,  as  the  honest  jeweller  said  jestingly: 
"If  you  wear  your  bank-notes,  you  always  know  where 
they  are."  As  Trillon  at  once  perceived,  this  is  per- 
fectly true. 

Hah0  baptized  in  royalty,  he  did  not  shrink  from 
the  whole  immersion.  He  proceeded  to  the  Place  of  the 
Forum  and  walked  round  it  three  times  selecting  the 
smartest  cab  there.  It  had  red  wheels  and  a  canopy 
with  red  fringe  and  tassels;  and  the  coachman  wore  a  red 
sash,  a  red  band  on  his  hat,  and  fluttered  a  red  ribbon 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

from  his  whip.  There  was  something  so  ineffably  royal 
about  the  whole  equipage  that  Trillon  was  bent  upon 
having  it,  although  he  had  to  bargain  long  to  obtain  a 
compromise  in  the  way  of  terms.  He  minded  this  the 
less  as  it  betokened  in  a  measure  the  effect  of  his  princeli- 
ness. 

It  would  be  difficult,  impossible,  I  fancy,  to  do  justice 
to  the  success,  from  a  popular  point  of  view,  of  the  ex- 
pedition, the  following  day.  The  monks  of  Montmajour 
had  perhaps  never  looked  upon  anything  more  magnifi- 
cent of  its  kind;  the  quarrymen  of  Fontvieille  stopped 
alike  their  songs  and  their  sawing;  the  women  of  Paradou, 
ranged  along  the  bench  of  the  station  to  gather  up  all  the 
news  of  the  world,  had  matter  for  a  week's  gossip.  It  is 
enough  to  say  that  he  arrived.  His  horses  clambered  up 
the  steep  slope  with  but  one  broken  knee  among  their 
eight  legs  —  the  Roman  cobbles  are  sharp- edged  still. 

He  arrived.  The  driver,  fully  convinced  in  his  own  mind 
of  the  lordliness  of  his  charge,  made  such  a  flourish  with 
his  whip  as  to  bring  most  of  the  heads  of  the  village  to 
their  several  doors  and  windows,  Jouse  and  Emilio  came 
out  of  the  inn,  beaming  with  visions  of  an  entertainment 
that  would  run  to  many  francs  in  their  pockets. 

Trillon  smiled  broadly  when  he  perceived  the  impression 
he  was  making;  and  the  smile  changed  to  his  charac- 
teristic "Hah!"  when  he  saw  the  slow  dawn  of  recogni- 
tion in  the  glance  they  exchanged  as  he  descended.  He 
thought  it  best  to  take  the  dilemma  by  both  horns  at  once. 
"A  bottle  of  Merrier"  said  he  grandly,  "and  three  glasses. 
We  drink  together.  And  —  give  the  driver  what  he  likes." 

152 


1HE  SECOND  RETURN  OF  TRILLON 

Champagne  so  early  in  the  morning?  Husband  and 
wife  exchanged  a  second  glance  and  a  third.  But  Jouse 
followed  the  yellow-checked  back  through  the  room  to  the 
terrace;  and  the  woman  went  to  fetch  the  bottle  and  wipe 
the  glasses. 

In  order  that  there  might  be  from  the  first  a  clear  under- 
standing of  his  changed  position,  Trillon  smacked  upon 
the  table  a  gold  coin;  and  in  extracting  this,  scattered  a 
shower  of  coppers  with  one  or  two  silver  pieces  among 
them  on  the  tousled  heads  of  the  heirs  of  the  house. 

Wide-eyed,  Emilio  set  down  the  bottle  and  retreated  a 
little  way,  wiping  her  hands  on  her  apron;  Jouse  bent  to 
the  cork  and  succeeded  in  eliciting  a  proper  fizz. 

But  he  was  in  doubt  how  to  proceed.  It  was  Trillon 
who  snatched  the  flask  and  poured,  at  the  same  time 
beckoning  the  woman:  "Health,  and  bury  the  past!" 

Perhaps  Jouse  did  not  hear  the  entire  sentence,  perhaps 
champagne  was  too  rare  and  over-tempting.  The  three 
glasses  touched,  and  there  followed  a  short  silence  of 
appreciation. 

"Well,"  said  Trillon  at  last,  "do  you  find  me  a  prettier 
fellow  than  you  did  three  days  ago?" 

Jouse  did  not  know  what  to  say,  so  wisely  kept  silence. 

"You  do  not  ask  me,  have  I  seen  your  sister?  I  have. 
You  do  not  ask,  are  we  still  betrothed?  You  may  guess 
the  answer.  Although  the  silver  ring  was  cut  away  from 
her  finger,  she  managed  to  get  the  pieces,  and  wears  them 
now  about  her  neck.  Do  you  ask,  am  I  rich  ?  Behold. 
In  three  weeks  or  four  we  shall  be  married." 

"It  is  necessary  to  call  the  banns  first,"  said  J<5use,  in 

153 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

his  slow  way,  with  a  smile  that  showed  all  the  whiteness 
of  his  teeth  under  his  dark  moustache. 

"Ah,  so,"  Trillon  granted  with  a  smile,  "and  I  have  a 
few  things  to  do  before  then.  I  must  be  about  them, 
kemt" 

"You  know,  I  suppose,-  something  of  the  situation?" 
asked  Jduse. 

"Hah!"  Trillon  threw  back  his  head  and  stroked  his 
chin.  "A  little,  my  brother,  a  little.  But,  look  you 
now.  I  leave  you  the  rest  of  the  drink;  I  must  have  my 
wits  about  me  this  morning.  I  have  business  to  perform. 
Come  then,  there's  a  thing  I  ask  of  each  of  you.  Of 
madame,  to  do  her  best  in  the  way  of  a  dejeuner;  and  of 
you,  whom  in  all  confidence  I  call  my  brother,  to  get  your 
priest,  your  Father  what's-his-name  ?  here  without  delay, 
as  my  guest  —  hein?  I  pay  —  I  pay."  And  from  the 
jingle  of  his  pockets  there  was  no  doubt  that  he  could. 

Jduse  scratched  his  head  in  some  perplexity,  but  when 
he  looked  at  his  wife  for  counsel,  she  gave  him  two  vigorous 
nods  that  put  strength  into  his  resolve.  With  Emillo, 
family  sentiment  weighed  less  than  louis  d'or;  and  a 
brother-in-law  who  could  break  into  a  convent  and  make 
a  fortune  within  three  days  might  prove  no  small  acquisi- 
tion. If,  indeed,  he  had  broken  into  the  convent.  .  .  . 
one  need  not  believe  the  word  of  every  passer-by.  But 
the  gold  clinked  for  itself;  and  the  clothes  and  the  jewels 
and  the  carriage  cried  aloud.  At  least,  one  might  be 
friendly  until  one  could  find  out  how  this  devil-of-a-fellow 
intended  to  proceed. 

Said  Jduse:  "And  if  he  will  not  come?" 

154 


THE  SECOND  RETURN  OF  TRILLON 

Trillon  pulled  out  his  watch  —  whereupon  his  rela- 
tions-to-be, viewed  in  the  light  of  his  hope  and  his  purpose, 
exchanged  another  glance;  and  Emilio's  expression  be- 
came still  more  friendly. 

"That's  your  affair,"  said  he.  "Do  as  you  please 
about  telling  him  who  it  is.  Say  it's  a  prince  incognito, 
or  an  English  lord,  if  you  like;  tell  him  what's  for  dinner; 
tell  him  the  truth.  It's  all  one  to  me.  Get  him  here, 
and  arrange  what  you  can  in  the  way  of  a  dejeuner  at 
short  notice;  and  you  shall  not  repent.  Meanwhile,  I 
must  be  about  my  affairs." 

He  strolled  to  the  door  of  the  room,  easily,  grandly,  his 
hands  thrust  deep  in  his  pockets,  his  seals  clinking  lightly 
against  one  another,  his  hat  pushed  well  on  the  back  of  his 
head,  leaving  Jduse  and  Emilio  still  rather  stupefied  by 
the  presence  of  so  much  splendour.  At  the  door,  he 
faced  about: 

"By  the  way,"  says  he,  "do  you  happen  to  know  of  any 
land  for  sale?" 

"Land?"  J<5use  rubbed  his  eyes. 

"A  farm,  for  example,  or  a  quarry?  Or  to  let?  But 
in  the  end,  it  might  be  cheaper  to  buy.  However,  we 
shall  see.  There  is  a  special  place  I  have  in  mind;  I'll 
have  a  look  at  it." 

Without  further  explanation  he  turned  to  go. 

Said  Emilio:  "There's  plenty  of  waste  land.  You 
might  buy  up  whole  mountains;  but  what  you  would  do 
when  you  had  them — ?" 

He  grinned  at  her,  "That  is  my  little  secret,"  and  so 
departed. 

155 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

"Emilio,"  said  Jduse,  solemnly,  pouring  himself  a 
second  glass  of  champagne.  "There  is  only  one  explana- 
tion for  it  —  he  is  as  mad  as  Judas  when  he  hanged 
himself!" 

"Mad  or  not  mad,"  says  she,  with  energy,  "he  shall 
have  his  dejeuner,  and  you  shall  fetch  Father  Gougoulin, 
and  then,  as  he  himself  says,  we  shall  see.  Mad  he  is 
undoubtedly,  to  make  such  a  fuss  about  a  huzzy 
who  is  much  better  off  where  she  is.  But  Saints  preserve 
us,  somehow  —  in  three  days  —  he  has  made  a  miracle 
of  himself!  And  what  more  is  it  that  you  want ?" 


156 


CHAPTER  XVII 

WHAT  MAY  BE  DONE  AT  A  DE'jEUNER 

THE  dining-room  of  the  Cabro  d'Or  is  finely  vaulted 
and  has  a  great  Renaissance  chimney.  Undoubtedly,  it 
was  once  painted  with  exuberance  and  set  out  with  flam- 
boyant stone  figures  by  some  rich  merchant,  in  the  days 
of  King  Francis.  But  when  Emilio  went  there  to  live  she 
blocked  in  the  fireplace  with  pasteboard,  covered  the  walls 
with  a  gay  crimson  wall-paper;  and  from  the  ribs  of  the 
ceiling  she  swung  festoons  and  globes  and  lanterns  of 
pink  and  yellow  tissue  paper.  The  stone  figures  had 
long  since  been  banished  to  the  garden;  and  the  one 
relic  of  the  ancient  dignity  of  the  room  is  the  great  Ca- 
poun-Fbr,  the  tawny  falcon  shot  afar  in  the  mountains  by 
some  ancestor  of  Mere  Borel. 

In  this  room,  Emilio  set  forth  such  entertainment  as 
she  was  able  to  provide  for  the  two  guests. 

How  procured,  by  what  subtlety  of  wit  or  mellifluity 
of  speech,  I  cannot  say;  but  the  presence  of  Father  Gou- 
goulin  occupied  the  most  comfortable  chair  when  Trillon 
entered,  with  a  look  of  serene  accomplishment  on  his  face. 

They  exchanged  courtesies,  Father  Gougoulin  lifting  a 

157 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

negligent  finger  to  his  cap,  and  Trillon  bowing  deeply. 
In  sheer  exuberance  of  —  what  shall  I  say  ?  grace  ?  good- 
feeling  ?  politeness  ?  —  he  bent  three  times,  laid  his  hat  on 
the  table,  and  sat  down  opposite  the  radishes. 

The  priest  turned  a  keen  scrutiny  upon  him,  but  left 
him  the  opening  speech,  the  first  thrust. 

Perceiving  this,  he  cast  a  genial  eye  over  the  hors- 
d'oeuvres.  "Olives,  anchovies,  sardines,  two  kinds  of 
sausage  and  radishes,"  said  he  amiably.  "Will  it  pass, 
monsieur  Pabbe*?" 

Father  Gougoulin  made  a  gesture  to  indicate  his  su- 
preme indifference  to  all  matters  of  food. 

"Well,  then,  unless  I  mistake,  I  am  hungry.  What 
say  you  —  shall  we  begin?" 

He  pushed  the  dishes  into  a  little  ring  of  ceremony 
before  the  sacerdotal  plate;  and  began  a  lively  attack 
upon  the  bread. 

Father  Gougoulin  stretched  out  a  languid  hand  towards 
the  anchovies.  Olives,  radishes,  sausages  —  they  were 
daily  fare. 

The  two  began  in  silence,  Trillon  showing  a  good  appe- 
tite bestowed  generously  upon  each  dish  in  turn.  He 
seemed  in  no  hurry  to  reach  the  point;  and  Father  Gou- 
goulin maintained  a  thoughtful  silence. 

Emilio  appeared  with  three  plates  nicely  balanced: 
snails,  their  horned  brown  heads  just  peeping  out  of  their 
shells,  and  salt  fish,  with  a  rich  confection  of  garlic  and 
oil  and  vinegar  called  aidli. 

"No  mountain  trout  here,  monsieur  1'abbeV'  said  Tril- 
lon cheerfully.  "But  what  would  you?  If  one  wants 

158 


WHAT  MAY  BE  DONE  AT  A  DEJEUNER 

fish,  one  gets  it,  fresh  or  salted.  And  in  the  end  it  is  fish. 
But  do  you  prefer  the  snails?" 

It  was  Father  Gougoulin  who  first  found  the  silence 
awkward. 

"To  what  do  I  owe  the  honour  of  this  invitation?"  he 
asked  abruptly. 

"The  honour,  monsieur  1'abbe",  is  entirely  mine;  but 
you  owe  the  invitation,  such  as  it  is,  to  my  desire  that 
there  shall  be  no  misunderstanding  between  us.  What  I 
do,  I  do  openly.  And  so  I  begin  by  assuring  you  that  I 
have  just  come  from  a  visit  to  the  convent  of  Sant  Alari, 
where  I  have  talked  with  the  lady  who  is  to  be  my  wife 
in  three  weeks  or  a  month." 

"Madaleno?"  asked  the  priest  calmly,  although  the 
snail  shells  rattled  under  his  ringers. 

Emilio  entered  with  a  steaming  dish  of  rabbit  and 
mushrooms,  for  which  she  knew  his  Reverence  had  a 
special  love.  It  seemed  that  Trillon  guessed  this  also, 
for  he  ladled  generously  and  then  pushed  over  the  wine. 

"You  know,  of  course,"  said  Father  Gougoulin,  munch- 
ing with  delicacy,  "that  she  has  a  vocation?" 

"No  doubt.  But  it  is  not  apparent,"  was  the  tranquil 
reply. 

"And  how  are  we  to  get  over  that?" 

Trillon's  eyes  gleamed  at  the  we;  but  he  dropped  them 
upon  his  wine-glass.  No  victory  is  won  by  over-confidence. 

"I  understand,  monsieur  1'abbe",  that  your  objection  is 
the  chief  bar  to  her  marriage  with  —  anyone  she  likes?" 

"An  objection,"  was  the  modest  answer,  "based  en- 
tirely on  the  wishes  of  the  deceased." 

159 


Trillon  showed  in  every  possible  way  that  he  was  fully 
prepared  to  accept  this  as  the  truth. 

"Well,  then,"  he  asked  naively,  "am  I  to  go  a  mourn- 
ing bachelor  all  my  days?" 

The  question  was  so  unexpected  that  the  priest  stopped 
in  the  middle  of  a  shrug  and  laughed;  and  Trillon  laughed 
with  him.  "But,  choose  again,"  was  Father  Gougoulin's 
only  remark. 

"So  I  may,  and  so  I  may  not,"  answered  Trillon,  with 
sudden  vigour,  "but  at  present  this  affair  amuses  me." 

"The  curse  of  the  dead  is  not  amusing,"  answered  the 
priest. 

"Not  at  all,  but  the  avoidance  of  it  may  be  —  do  you 
see?" 

Father  Gougoulin  bent  over  his  mushrooms,  for  the 
asparagus  was  arriving,  and  he  wished  more  rabbit  before 
the  plates  were  removed.  When  his  attention  was  only 
half  held  by  the  asparagus,  for  which  he  had  no  special 
liking,  Trillon  went  at  him  again. 

"And  so,  my  father,  your  consent  is  impossible  to  be 
obtained?" 

"Am  I  to  trifle  with  the  salvation  or  damnation  of  a 
soul?"  asked  the  priest,  following  a  tender  shoot  of 
asparagus  all  the  way  up  to  his  ringers. 

"Myself,  I  am  not  religious,"  said  Trillon,  and  then 
as  if  some  one  had  contradicted  him,  he  repeated:  "I  am 
not  religious.  I  get  what  I  want  in  this  world  and  let  the 
other  go." 

"Then  you  are  of  the  army  of  the  devil,"  said  the  priest 
composedly,  with  half  an  eye  to  see  whether  by  any 

1 60 


WHAT  MAY  BE  DONE  AT  A   DEJEUNER 

luck  the  piece  de  resistance  was  young  lamb  with  green 
peas. 

"That  may  be.  I  notice  the  devil  generally  gets  his 
way  in  this  world  ..." 

Father  Gougoulin  looked  a  little  startled  —  vexed  too, 
because  the  lamb  and  green  peas  proved  to  be  mutton 
and  spinach. 

"I  fail  to  understand  monsieur." 

"No?  Then  I  make  myself  clear.  The  point  is,  I 
shall  have  Madeloun  by  fair  means  or  other,  because  at 
present  it  is  my  fancy  to  have  her.  Now  the  question  of 
your  consent  is  nothing  to  me.  I  defer  to  the  foolish 
prejudice  of  women  who  play  with  sentiments  as  bulls 
with  red  rags  until  they  grow  mad  .  .  ." 

The  priest  gave  no  answer,  making  the  best  of  the 
mutton  and  hoping  for  fowl. 

"  So,  to  keep  her  from  lying  awake  nights,  I  shall  humour 
her  by  fulfilling  her  mother's  conditions,  you  see;  and  to 
this  end  your  consent  is  necessary." 

The  priest  chuckled,  for,  after  all,  it  was  fowl,  and 
succulent. 

"  Come,  now,"  says  Trillon,  "find  me  the  thing  to  do  that 
I  cannot  do;  and  if  I  make  good,  give  her  up  like  a  man." 

"You're  a  boastful  blackguard  1"  said  Father  Gou- 
goulin, with  an  eye  on  the  lookout  for  salad. 

"Try  me  —  try  me,"  says  Trillon  eagerly. 

But  the  priest  was  intent  upon  oil  and  vinegar,  for  the 
perfect  adjustment  of  the  dressing  lay  in  his  hands. 

"If  it  is  only  a  question  of  money"  —  Trillon  flung  a 
handful  of  notes  and  gold  on  the  table. 

.161 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

Father  Gougoulin  mixed  the  salad,  with  a  look  of  im- 
mense consideration.  Trillon  began  to  suspect  that  his 
expensive  choice  of  wines  was  not  wasted  after  all.  A 
hard  head  the  priest  had  shown,  but  his  gravity  was 
becoming  preternatural. 

"Her  family  would  be  glad  to  have  her  off  their  hands," 
said  Trillon,  advancing  the  latest  bottle. 

"She  is  off  their  hands,"  said  Father  Gougoulin  a  little 
slily ;  but  he  made  sad  work  of  chewing  down  a  lettuce  leaf. 
"She  is  safe  in  the  arms  of  the  Church." 

Trillon  grinned  and  —  I  am  afraid  to  say  —  winked. 
"Then  let  the  Church  hold  her  fast,"  he  said. 

But  it  is  doubtful  whether  Father  Gougoulin  heard. 
He  suddenly  waved  one  wing  and  half  the  breast  of  the 
fowl  in  air,  and  broke  into  song: 

"When  the  little  hedge-king  on  the  broom 
Sings  his  love-longing " 

Trillon  watched  with  his  changeful  yellow  eyes,  and 
awaited  the  moment  which  should  prove  auspicious. 

"And  so,  good  monsieur  Pabbe",  I  take  your  consent 
for  granted." 

"Wahl"  said  the  priest  rudely. 

"No?"  asked  Trillon. 

Gougoulin  looked  at  him  a  moment,  with  a  return  of 
intelligence:  "I  could  tell  you  something  —  oh,  yes,  I 
could  tell  you  something  if  I  liked  .  .  ." 

"Well,  then,  tell,"  said  Trillon  soothingly. 

But  he  took  alarm:  "This  is  not  the  time  —  I  will  tell 
at  the  proper  time."  It  was  far  from  clear  how  much 

162 


WHAT  MAY  BE  DONE  AT  A   DEJEUNER 

truth  lay  under  the  pompous  assertion.  For  a  moment, 
Trillon  was  in  despair  how  to  handle  this  fat  eel.  He 
pondered  a  little,  remembering  various  things  that  Made- 
loun  had  said,  then  he  had  a  flash  and  spoke:  "At  least, 
I  take  you  at  your  word  —  you  cannot  go  back  on  your 
own  word." 

"What  I  said  I  stand  by  now  and  forever,"  said  the 
priest  solemnly;  but  his  face  was  vacant  of  any  compre- 
hension. 

"Hoi,  then!"  —  Trillon  leaped  to  his  feet.  "It  is  but 
the  working  of  a  miracle  or  two;  and  we  shall  have  Made- 
loun  here.  It  will  be  a  game." 

"What?  What?"  The  priest  took  fire  and  half  rose 
to  unsay  his  words;  but  his  drowsiness  was  too  great. 

"Almonds?"  says  Trillon.  "Raisins?  Not  even  a 
little  Roquefort?  It's  very  green." 

Father  Gougoulin  sank  back  on  one  end  of  the  long 
bench  —  the  bench  on  which  Mistral  has  sung  and 
Daudet  has  told  stories. 

"Sarnipabieune!"  says  Trillon,  bringing  down  his  fist, 
without  stirring  the  drone  that  had  begun  from  the  sacer- 
dotal nose.  "It  is  a  thing  to  be  done!" 

He  shook  his  fist  at  the  hoary,  unreverend  head  before 
him :  "  Now,  Manjo-crestian !  And  it  will  satisfy  her.  And 
it  will  be  worthy  of  the  hawk.  Caspitello  /" 

He  could  not  refrain  from  clapping  the  old  man  on  the 
shoulder:  "Hoi,  monsieur  1'abbe",  I  shall  want  your 
services  yet!" 

The  words  but  half  penetrated.  "Is  it  a  funeral?" 
mumbled  the  priest,  without  looking  up. 

163 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

Then  Trillon  laughed  so  that  Emilio  peeped  in  to  see 
what  was  wanted.  "You  will  be  needed  on  several  other 
occasions  before  that  time,  I  trust." 

Seeing  Emilio,  he  prepared  to  pay  for  his  extravagance. 
He  pushed  towards  her  a  gold  piece,  and  took  up 
the  roll  of  bank-notes  lying  on  the  table  ...  it  was 
amazingly  light  ...  He  reached  into  all  his  pockets 
and  drew  forth  what  he  could  find.  Then  he  deliberately 
set  one  of  his  princely  cigars  a-going;  and  with  a  sudden 
idea,  stuffed  two  more  well  into  the  priest's  sash,  so  that 
he  should  find  them  when  he  arrived  home.  And  after 
that,  he  set  to  work  counting  his  money.  He  went  over 
the  process  several  times,  with  increasing  slowness  and 
method.  The  result  was  the  same.  When  he  reached 
the  end,  for  a  second  his  face  was  rather  black.  Surely 
a  thousand  francs  made  a  little  fortune  ?  Yes,  but  when 
one  lives  like  a  prince  .  .  .  Well,  what  would  you  — 
hein  ? 


164 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE  THIRD  RETURN  OF  TRILLON 

THE  Place  du  Conne*table  de  Montferrand  is  the  heart 
of  Castelar,  being  a  small  stone-paved  polygon  of  uncer- 
tain shape,  between  the  ruined  mansion  of  the  warrior 
who  in  his  time  defied  the  great  Richelieu  himself  from 
these  city  walls,  and  the  church  of  the  Maries,  Madeleine 
and  Jacob6  and  Salome*,  and  her  who  is  chief  of  them  all, 
Our  Lady.  So  closely  do  these  two  shoulder  each 
other  that  the  Rue  des  Sarrasins  has  to  tunnel  its  way 
under  one  wing  of  the  H6tel,  to  get  up  into  the  town, 
And  all  the  opposite  side  of  this  thirty-foot  enclosure  is 
the  curving  rampart,  stone-work  built  on  hewn  rock, 
whence  one  can  look  down  upon  the  Porte  Murette,  the 
chief  gate  in  the  city  wall;  and  lower  still,  to  the  sandy 
terrace  where  travellers  had  to  wait  until  judgment  was 
passed  upon  them,  in  the  old  days  of  plague;  onward  and 
down  along  the  green  valley,  over  plain  and  marsh  and 
mere  to  the  line  of  the  sea. 

The  Place  is  never  empty.  To  be  sure,  one  room  of 
the  great  house  of  Montferrand  has  been  roofed  over  to 
serve  as  Council  Chamber,  when  the  mayor  is  called  up 

165 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

from  the  fields,  and  the  officials  lay  aside  their  patois  and 
put  on  their  coats  to  wrestle  with  French;  and  of  course 
when  there  are  public  notices,  these  are  set  up  outside  the 
wall,  hence  foregathering  is  natural.  At  election-time 
the  tricolour  sweeps  the  Place  and  fills  it.  At  mail-time, 
the  facteur  comes  here  to  the  one  letter-box  in  the  town; 
and  as  there  is  no  post-office,  he  is  always  followed  by  a 
trail  of  folk  who  wish  to  know  what  news  he  brings  from 
the  outer  world,  and  what  letters  are  sent  away,  and  why. 
He  has  been  known  to  have  even  a  small  handful  at  a 
time.  More  than  this,  there  is  the  drawing  power  of  the 
long  white  road  that  Madeloun  had  watched  from  her 
terrace,  and  the  blue  unexplored  plains  of  the  distance. 
Aside  from  the  one  highway,  there  is  only  the  rough  sheep- 
track  that  leads  into  the  heart  of  the  mountains,  and  the 
narrow  path  that  climbs  to  the  parched  cemetery  on  the 
crest;  and  so  folk  are  ever  on  the  lookout  to  see  what  may 
come  up  to  them  from  the  world  that  they  do  not  know. 
There  are  sometimes  as  many  as  a  score  leaning  and 
looking  and  listening  over  the  wall;  and  even  when,  as 
rarely  happens,  it  is  deserted  of  all  humanity,  it  never 
lacks  a  dog  or  two  sleeping  in  the  sun.  So  strong  is  the 
spell  of  the  Place  that  old  Antouneto,  who  long  ago  lost  all 
count  of  her  years,  and  remembered  only  that  she  was 
named  for  a  lovely  and  unfortunate  queen  of  France  — 
Tounieto,  who  has  barely  kept  alive  this  long  while,  suck- 
ing hi  the  sun  at  the  doorway  of  her  granddaughter's 
daughter-in-law,  one  day  had  a  flicker  of  strength  that 
moved  her  down  the  Rue  des  Sarrasins,  and  was  remarked 
by  many  neighbours  as  she  leaned  against  the  ramparts 

166 


THE  THIRD  RETURN  OF  TRILLON 

and  mumbled  to  the  distance.    The  last  call  of  life  to  her 
came  from  the  Place;  and  the  next  morning  she  died. 

However  few  people  intended  to  wear  elbow  holes  in 
the  stone  wall,  the  morning  of  Trillon's  third  return  to 
Castelar,  the  company  was  swelled  to  a  sufficient  crowd 
by  the  time  that  his  cart  made  a  distinguishable  blot  upon 
the  distant  road.  For  a  time,  question  and  conjecture  flew 
about  like  mosquitoes,  then  some  one  made  the  brilliant 
suggestion  that  Jaquelin  of  Masblanc,  one  of  the  two 
acolytes  of  a  Sunday  and  on  familiar  terms  with  Father 
Gougoulin,  should  run  and  borrow  his  field-glass. 

When  this  had  been  passed  about  for  some  time  in  silence, 
it  was  determined  that  the  approaching  vehicle  was  no 
gypsy  van  as  had  been  at  first  supposed,  but  an  ordinary 
farm  charrette,  packed  high  with  indistinguishable  objects, 
fronted  by  a  driver  in  blue  and  drawn  by  a  white  mule. 
One  man  even  swore  to  the  identity  of  the  beast,  saying 
that  it  came  from  a  farmer  he  knew  near  Montmajour. 

As  the  mule  began  the  winding  cobbled  ascent  of  the 
Roman  road,  an  extraordinary  noise  as  of  pans  and  pot- 
tery, iron  and  tin,  together  with  the  clucking  of  fowls,  the 
bee  of  a  sheep  or  two,  and  the  sharp,  swiftly-suppressed 
yelp  of  a  dog  apparently  trotting  underneath,  was  blended 
and  borne  on  high. 

Before  any  sensible  meaning  could  be  extracted  out  of 
this  manage,  the  driver  looked  up  and  perceived  the  row 
of  heads  over  the  wall,  whereupon  he  waved  his  broad- 
brimmed  straw  hat,  laughed  and  shouted. 

Jduse  suddenly  stepped  back  as  if  he  wished  not  to  be 
seen: 

167 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

"  Tron-de-goi,  that  spendthrift,  that  eat-when-he-gets-it, 
it's  my  brother-in-law  to  be!" 

At  this,  casual  interest  was  intensified  to  a  breathless 
silence.  The  town  remembered  Trillon  very  well.  Even 
the  women  left  their  water-carrying  and  their  work,  and 
came  to  peep  wherever  they  could  find  space  between 
the  men's  shoulders. 

When  the  cavalcade  arrived  just  below  the  Porte  Mu- 
rette,  it  was  perceived  that  the  charrette  was  covered  with 
a  great  tarpaulin,  under  which  in  front  appeared  portions 
of  furniture,  chairs,  a  mattress,  an  oil  stove,  a  table,  a 
camp-bed  .  .  .  And  the  animals  grew  blatant  as  the 
wheels  rattled  over  the  stones  .  .  .  The  women  gained 
for  themselves  better  points  of  view  by  their  quicker  wit 
and  fertility  in  making  out  the  various  objects  exposed  to 
the  gaze  of  the  community. 

Serene  above  the  uproar  sat  the  man  in  blue,  singing, 
and  his  voice  was  strong: 

"The  rosemary  all  through  the  mountains, 
Is  drenched  with  the  rain  of  my  tears; 
My  sighs  like  wind  stir  the  fountains 
For  thee,  my  love  of  long  years, 
Brown  maid  of  the  mountains. " 

As  he  was  about  to  pass  under  the  dark  gateway,  he 
interrupted  himself  and  shouted:  "Good  day,  my 
neighbours.  I  am  come  to  live  among  you." 

When  he  emerged  on  the  other  side,  in  the  crooked 
alley  that  leads  between  the  H6tel  and  the  ramparts  to 
the  Place,  he  found  the  community  faced  about,  and  the 
mayor  in  front,  prepared  with  an  answer  —  or  a  challenge. 

168 


THE  THIRD  RETURN  OF  TRILLON 

He  did  not  descend  to  earth  at  once,  as  was  evidently 
expected  —  he  judged  by  the  clear  space  about  the 
charrette;  but  continued  sitting  on  his  heap  of  boxes  and 
sacks  as  on  a  throne,  and  cheerfully  awaited  the  voice  of 
Castelar.  Said  the  mayor: 

"Where  do  you  come  from?" 

"Marseilles,"  says  Trillon,  "where  I  have  been  buying 
my  farm.  This  is  my  household,  my  mule  and  my  dog. 
My  wife  comes  later.  What  next?" 

"Your  farm?"  says  the  mayor  slowly.  "There  have 
been  no  farms  for  sale  at  Castelar." 

Trillon  laughed:  "Go  to  the  prefect  and  teach  him  his 
business.  He  made  the  sale.  But  it  would  perhaps  be 
more  correct  to  say  that  I  have  brought  my  farm  with  me." 

As  if  in  confirmation  of  this  remarkable  statement,  from 
the  depths  of  the  cart  a  cock  crowed,  as  pompously  as  if 
already  he  stood  on  his  own  midden-heap. 

There  was  a  rustle  of  laughter  and  a  swift  buzz  of  talk 
in  the  crowd,  almost  instantly  hushed  at  Trillon's  fresh 
trumpet-note.  "My  mas,"  he  repeated.  "To  be  sure, 
my  mas!"  As  if  a  farm  could  be  loaded  up  by  spadefuls 
and  carried  where  one  liked,  was  the  public  comment. 

"Pecaire!"  said  a  man's  voice,  "I  think  I'll  pack  mine 
into  my  jardiniero  and  move  it  to  Marseilles,  where  is 
much  more  fun  than  scratching  among  the  rocks  here." 

"No,"  said  another,  "it  would  be  better  to  fetch  Mar- 
seilles and  set  it  on  the  top  of  Costa  Pera  yonder." 

But  Trillon  hung  up  his  reins,  preparatory  to  descend- 
ing, and  said  calmly:  "I  invite  every  man  here  who  can 
get  himself  into  the  Cabro  d'Or  to  drink  with  me  —  what 

169 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

he  likes  —  to  the  success  of  my  enterprise.    It  is  the 
christening  of  my  land." 

"Your  land?"  says  the  mayor,  in  a  voice  of  authority. 
"Yes,  but  where  is  your  land?" 

"Eh,  well,"  answered  Trillon,  "you  will  soon  know. 
It's  chiefly  in  the  Pit  of  Artaban." 

At  this  a  murmur  of  amazement  passed  through  the 
crowd.  There  were  some  among  the  people  who  had 
always  thought  him  mad. 

But  he  gave  them  small  chance  for  thinking.  He  got 
down  briskly  and  turned  to  lead  the  way  on  foot  to  the 
inn,  whither  Jduse  had  long  since  departed.  It  was  not 
possible  to  proceed  further  with  his  equipage,  so  he  hung 
a  nose-bag  about  the  mule's  head,  spoke  a  word  or  two 
to  Jaquelin,  the  acolyte;  and  stepped  out  briskly,  followed 
by  most  of  the  men  in  a  series  of  trickling  groups,  while 
the  women  lingered  to  appraise  the  cart  and  its  contents. 

He  was  a  pure  exaggeration  of  a  Provenyal  farmer,  this 
Trillon,  in  his  baggy  trousers  and  coat  of  blue  jean,  with 
his  crimson  sash,  high-heeled  boots  and  sombrero.  With 
a  high  narrow  tambourin  he  would  have  done  for  the 
variety  stage  at  Marseilles. 

They  found  J<5use,  very  neat  and  leisurely  in  his  white 
linen,  at  a  game  of  draughts  with  a  traveller  from  Aries, 
who  was  above  feeling  interest  in  small  local  excitements. 
He  had  been  botanizing  among  the  mountains  and  was 
waiting  for  the  chance  of  a  lift  home. 

J6use  lifted  his  smooth  handsome  dark  face,  with  its 
shining  bald  forehead  and  long  drooping  moustache,  in 
frank  amazement  at  the  crowd  blocking  his  screen-door. 

170 


THE  THIRD  RETURN  OF  TRILLON 

This  was  neither  Saturday  nor  Sunday,  and  he  had  looked 
for  a  quiet  morning;  but  wherever  that  man  Trillon 
was  .  .  .  However,  he  had  no  hesitation,  no  false  pride, 
about  serving  the  drinks,  when  he  heard  that  his  eccentric 
self -adopted  relation  was  to  pay  for  them.  But  he  went 
first  to  Emilio  in  the  kitchen,  with  a  tremendous  tale  of 
this  brother-in-law-to-be,  who  had  come  successively  as  a 
travelling  musician,  a  beggar,  and  a  lord  incognito;  and 
was  now  returning  for  the  third  time  as  a  mere  freak  of  a 
farmer.  It  was  clear  that  he  was  mad  —  equally  clear 
that  he  must  be  indulged. 

The  moment  the  cafe*  began  to  buzz  and  swarm,  the 
host  of  the  occasion  hastily  departed  from  before  the 
indignant  eyes  of  the  mayor,  who  had  condescended  to 
sit  at  the  same  table  with  him.  He  had  poured 
down  his  throat  a  large  glass  of  lemonade,  which  he  de- 
clared excellent  to  wash  the  dust  from  the  lungs  and  tone 
the  stomach;  and  before  the  corks  of  the  others  were  pop- 
ping and  their  glasses  bubbling,  he  had  thrown  down  two 
big  silver  pieces  by  way  of  payment  —  no  longer  gold, 
mark  you  —  and  was  gone. 

It  is  just  possible  that  the  whole  performance  was  an 
expedient  on  his  part  to  be  rid  of  audience  when  taking 
possession  of  his  farm.  Certain  it  is,  that  his  act  worked 
to  that  effect;  and  when  he  had  disposed  of  the  urchins  by 
mingled  threats  and  a  rain  of  coppers  that  set  them  a- 
scrambling  and  a-quarrelling,  he  went  his  way  unpur- 
sued,  save  by  the  admiring  glances  of  the  women  in  the 
doorways  —  through  the  arch  of  the  Rue  des  Sarrasins, 
through  the  town  and  out  from  the  Porte  Horloge  to 

171 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

the  extraordinary  place  that  is  known  as  the  Pit  of 
Artaban.  . 

Meanwhile,  he  was  discussed,  together  with  the  flavour 
of  the  drinks  he  had  provided.  Round  and  round  the 
village  minds  chased  one  another,  and  came  always  to 
the  same  conclusion:  "It  is  a  madman  —  a  fool!" 

But  small  Jaquelin  of  Masblanc,  the  acolyte,  who  had 
some  while  since  crept  in  through  the  screen-door  and 
stood  listening  to  the  men,  now  showed  a  handful  of  sous, 
and  voiced  the  general  opinion  as  he  said:  "Even  if  he  is 
mad,  he  must  be  very  rich." 


172 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE  PIT  OF  ARTABAN 

THE  road  between  Castelar  and  the  Pit  of  Artaban, 
after  it  emerges  from  the  Porte  Horloge,  quickly  becomes 
a  mere  alley  between  the  olive-groves  that  climb  the  hill 
at  the  back  of  the  village;  and  when  it  has  drifted  through 
a  little  narrow  dale  and  proceeds  to  ascend  the  rocky 
slope  opposite,  it  is  simply  a  cut  between  crags,  with  a 
bed  of  shale  washed  down  by  the  rain,  a  few  tufts  of 
thyme,  spurs  of  gorse,  and  ridges  of  live  rock. 

It  was  no  easy  matter  driving  a  farmyard  and  a  crockery 
shop  along  this  highway.  Even  the  yellow  dog  in  disgust 
gave  up  footing  it  and  made  a  scramble  to  sit  beside  the 
blue  driver.  To  her  Trillon  confided  certain  of  his 
thoughts. 

"Floureto,"  said  he,  "do  you  consider  this  a  promising 
farm,  or  does  it  have  at  all  the  look  of  a  quarry  to  you  ? 
I  confess  that  to  my  mind  it  is  rather  like  a  big  hole  in  the 
rocks.  And  this  is  the  place  we  must  make  blossom  like 
a  rose.  Eh,  well,  a  man  can  never  tell  what  he  can  do 
till  he  is  put  to  it.  But  wait  till  you  see  the  farmhouse, 
Flouro.  You  will  be  a  surprised  dog,  little  beast." 

173 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

And  indeed,  Flouro  gave  a  wild  yelp  when  the  equipage 
came  to  rest  on  the  lower  hill,  where  it  juts  out  into  the 
plain,  not  unlike  a  sea- headland;  and  when  she  leaped 
down  and  had  a  look  into  the  ruined  windmill  that  con- 
fronted her  there,  she  yelped  more  sharply  than  before. 

"My  friends,"  said  Trillon  to  his  household,  "we  are 
at  home.  Make  the  best  of  it." 

He  pushed  back  his  hat,  wiped  the  sweat  from  his  fore- 
head, and  surveyed  his  land. 

Flouro  gave  him  a  tragic  glance;  then  uttered  another 
yelp,  and  proceeded  to  nose  out  the  prospects  in  the  way 
of  small  game. 

A  more  extraordinary  spot  for  setting  up  a  farm  would 
not  readily  have  occurred  to  the  mind  of  man.  The 
ground  was  thickly  crusted  with  boulders,  rocks  of  all 
sizes  and  shapes,  ranged  cheek  by  jowl,  or  sometimes  in 
great  heaps  like  gigantic  petrified  ants  coming  out  of  their 
hill.  ("What  the  devil,"  says  Trillon,  "cannot  boulders 
be  moved?")  Legend  has  it  that  when  Jupiter  warred 
with  the  Titans,  he  flung  them  down  by  pelting  them 
with  the  pebbles  of  the  Crau;  and  the  Peak  of  Artaban 
skirts  the  Crau.  Here  the  Titans  must  have  made  stout 
resistance,  for  between  the  great  boulders  small  'bits  have 
been  rained  like  hailstones,  so  that  it  is  difficult  to  get  a 
footing  among  them.  ("What  the  devil,"  says  Trillon, 
"cannot  pebbles  be  taken  away?"  And  in  Marseilles  the 
authorities  had  expressed  themselves  of  his  opinion.) 

The  larger  rocks  made  the  hilltop  look  like  a  nightmare 
frozen  into  stone.  They  were  carved  into  great  heads, 
with  profiles  half  human,  half  beastly,  into  monsters 


THE  PIT  OF  ARTABAN 

natural  and  supernatural  —  griffins,  hippogriffs,  sphinxes, 
unicorns,  dragons,  centaurs,  chimeras  —  creatures  imag- 
inable and  unimaginable,  but  always  with  a  curious  sem- 
blance of  frozen  life.  It  was  no  wonder  that  Flouro 
howled  three  times  and  was  destined  to  bay  dismally 
many  times  more  before  she  was  done  with  the  place. 
Wise  men  say  that  the  sea,  which  once  spread  over  all  the 
plain  below,  has  wrought  these  miracles  hi  stonework; 
but  to  the  folk  of  Castelar  they  wear  the  look  of  magic 
and  are  safeliest  avoided  by  night. 

The  Pit  of  Artaban  is  a  sudden  hollow  between  the 
two  levels  of  the  hill,  and  contains  a  half- worked  quarry 
abandoned  ages  ago.  One  side  is  a  sheer-cut  wall,  rudely 
semicircular  in  shape,  perhaps  twenty  metres  high,  and 
its  uneven  floor  is  more  thickly  covered  with  coarse  her- 
bage than  is  the  surrounding  hillside.  The  quarry  itself 
forms  a  sort  of  ledge  covered  with  rock  and  rubble,  and 
wherever  the  wind  has  left  a  little  dust,  with  clumps  of 
gorse.  From  the  lowest  point  to  the  top  there  is  a 
scarcely  definable  track  over  boulders  and  between  scrubs, 
winding  up  in  small  spirals  and  traversing  the  semi- 
circle between  the  bottom  and  the  crest.  The  windmill 
stood  —  stands  yet  —  on  the  lower  part  of  the  promon- 
tory near  the  tip,  where  the  mistral  has  a  clean  sweep; 
and  immediately  behind  it  is  the  bottom  of  the  Pit,  with 
only  a  short  slope  of  four  or  five  metres  down,  but 
seeming  a  veritable  profundity  from  its  top  ledge,  the 
quarry,  when  this  has  been  reached  by  the  rocky  winding 
path. 

Trillon  was  not  blind  to  the  magnificence  of  the  scenery; 

175 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

but  in  the  nearest  corner  of  his  mind  he  was  thinking  of 
the  mule. 

"Come,  now,"  says  he,  "Balin,  I  don't  suppose 
you're  hungry;  but  you  may  as  well  take  a  rest  in 
your  new  pasture  and  see  what  you  can  find  to  suit  your 
digestion." 

He  freed  the  animal  and  drove  him  down  the  slope  into 
the  Pit,  tying  him  with  a  long  tether  to  a  pinnacle  of  rock. 

This  accomplished,  he  proceeded  to  burrow  in  the 
depths  of  his  cart,  and  presently  drew  thence  a  basketful 
of  fowls  packed  for  safety  under  a  table,  and  three  sheep 
tied  securely  between  the  legs  of  a  folded  camp-bed. 
These  he  tethered  in  a  similar  fashion  in  the  Pit ;  but  while 
he  was  surveying  his  livestock  with  due  satisfaction,  he 
was  suddenly  so  overcome  by  hunger  that  every  other 
thing  in  the  world  lost  its  immediate  importance. 

He  managed  to  shelter  his  oil-stove  from  the  mistral 
among  the  nettles  that  nearly  filled  the  windmill,  and 
unpacked  a  box  of  dishes  and  cooking  utensils.  The  first 
food  that  he  reached  was  a  basket  that  with  commendable 
foresight  he  had  placed  in  an  accessible  position  for  this 
very  meal,  with  bread  and  sausage  and  wine  and  eggs. 

But  these  last  were  uncooked.  He  hunted  out  a  sauce- 
pan, and  then  —  then  only  —  he  first  remembered  that 
he  had  not  inquired  into  the  question  of  water  on  the  land. 
This  small  detail  had  also  been  overlooked,  perhaps 
cheerfully,  by  the  authorities  in  Marseilles,  who  trans- 
ferred it  to  him  for  a  consideration  of  bank-notes. 

"I  may  have  to  divert  a  water-course,"  said  he,  looking 
about  for  a  solution  to  the  immediate  difficulty.  In  a 

176 


THE  PIT  OF  ARTABAN 

moment,  he  had  one  so  simple,  so  ingenious,  that  it  shows, 
more  than  almost  any  other  single  fact,  the  true  magnitude 
and  easy  working  of  his  mind.  He  poached  the  eggs  in 
white  wine.  Did  you  ever  taste  them  so?  He  assures 
me  they  are  worthy  of  a  gourmet. 

"By  all  that  is  holy,"  says  he,  "it  was  a  discovery  in 
itself!" 

Picture  him  then  on  the  open  cliff,  eating  in  the  shade 
of  his  roofless  windmill,  with  his  household  browsing 
below  in  the  Pit  of  Artaban. 

With  his  second  cup  of  wine,  the  present  began  to 
merge  into  the  golden  future.  Stone  monsters  became 
olive-groves  and  almonds  and  mulberries;  the  ground 
instead  of  its  crop  of  pebbles  was  covered  with  teazle  and 
haricot  beans,  with  here  and  there  a  vineyard.  The  plateau 
became  rich  pasture-land;  and  at  the  far  end  of  it  rose 
the  farmhouse,  with  its  stone-pillared  porch,  over-run 
with  vine  and  fig,  with  its  stone  table  and  benches  on 
which  he  sat  with  Madeloun,  eating  their  own  black 
olives  and  goat's  cheese  and  figs,  and  drinking  the  wine 
from  their  own  grapes  .  .  . 

For  a  man  who,  barring  the  time  he  was  at  sea,  had 
scarcely  done  a  day's  labour  in  his  life,  it  was  a  notable 
picture.  But  then,  as  he  assured  himself,  he  did  not  mean 
to  do  the  work;  he  had  only  to  set  it  in  motion  by  such 
means  as  his  wit  should  devise.  And  as  for  the  house, 
it  was  half -built  already,  being  cut  out  of  the  cliff  by  men 
who  had  lived  at  the  beginning  of  the  world.  Three 
solid  walls  were  there,  hewn  out  of  the  rock.  Only  the 
front  must  be  added  of  shaped  quarry-stones.  There  are 

177 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

many  such  dwellings  about  Castelar  —  ruined  houses 
older  than  the  record  of  history,  turned  to  good  use  by 
the  builders  of  to-day. 

It  was  pleasant  enough  smoking  a  pipe  in  the  shade  and 
shelter  of  one's  mill,  dreaming  of  the  prettiest  and  sweetest 
little  bird  in  the  world,  who  was  just  waiting  for  her  hawk 
to  come  and  nip  the  cord  that  bound  her  to  an  unwilling 
perch  .  .  .  But  the  afternoon  haze  was  creeping  up  from 
the  sea.  Soon  the  heat  of  the  day  would  be  supplanted 
by  the  chill  of  evening,  and  one  could  not  sleep  among 
nettles  breast-high.  Relentless  necessity  demanded  a  cer- 
tain amount  of  clearance  and  unpacking;  and  all  the  beasts 
were  waterless.  I  doubt  whether  even  Trillon  contem- 
plated giving  them  white  wine. 

He  awoke  from  his  dream  with  a  sigh  .  .  .  heaven  is 
always  so  far  away!  Then  he  rose  and  stretched  himself 
in  the  sun,  with  his  face  turned  up  as  if  the  rays  gave  him 
strength.  After  that  he  went  to  work  with  a  mighty 
impulse  that  sent  the  stones  flying  out  of  the  windmill, 
cut  nettles  like  paper  and  brushed  them  in  thick  masses 
into  the  open,  frightening  the  yellow  dog  almost  out  of 
sight  and  earshot.  In  an  amazingly  short  time  he  had 
its  circular  floor,  perhaps  fifteen  feet  in  diameter,  clear 
for  his  bed,  stove,  and  various  stores;  and  the  great  tar- 
paulin, acquired  at  some  junk  shop  near  the  docks  in 
Marseilles,  he  was  ready  to  hoist  into  its  position  as  roof. 
And  if  you  would  know  how  he  did  it,  I  can  say  only  that 
he  had  a  ladder  and  several  planks  lashed  under  his  long- 
tailed  cart;  and  that  he  mounted  his  ladder  and  dragged 
up  his  planks  one  by  one,  laying  them  in  a  sort  of  network 

178 


THE  PIT  OF  ARTABAN 

across  the  stones.  Luckily  for  him  the  original  roof  had 
been  torn  off  so  as  to  leave  a  clean  rim.  Then  with  a 
good  deal  of  painful  labour  he  stretched  his  tarpaulin 
over  this  frame,  and  weighted  it  down  at  intervals  with 
boulders  as  heavy  as  he  could  lift  —  an  incidental  begin- 
ning at  clearing  the  land  —  until  the  windmill  was  topped 
by  almost  a  cairn  of  stones.  When  he  judged  it  safe, 
even  from  the  mistral,  the  day  was  past  sunset. 

He  sat  down  with  a  huge  sigh  of  relief,  so  tired  that  he 
did  not  stir  for  above  an  hour,  even  to  find  himself  bread 
and  cheese,  or  to  light  a  candle  within  his  hut.  But  with 
the  first  bite,  he  remembered  his  hungry,  thirsty  animals. 
The  yellow  dog  hung  about  his  knee,  refusing  to  eat,  and 
openly  panting  her  need  of  refreshment.  Trillon  laid 
down  his  food  and  sighed;  then  he  laughed  and  fell  a- 
whistling,  as  he  jerked  his  weary  bones  into  action,  and 
hunted  out  two  pails. 

It  was  a  long  walk  to  the  village.  The  night  was 
moonless,  and  twice  or  thrice  he  lost  his  road  and  strayed 
among  the  olive  alleys;  and  though  the  town  was  plain 
enough  all  the  while  above  him,  he  could  not,  so  encum- 
bered, climb  the  sheer  ascent  where  the  trees  stopped  short, 
the  yellow  dog  pattering  at  his  heels,  and  not  offering  to 
act  as  guide.  But  the  time  that  he  reached  the  slope  to 
the  Porte  Horloge,  Castelar  was  black  and  silent,  even  the 
cafe*.  He  walked  softly  in  his  sandals,  for  he  had  a  feel- 
ing that  this  expedition  was  a  bit  ridiculous  on  the  part  of 
one  who  had  his  own  land,  and  had  set  out  to  be  a  farmer. 

He  came  to  the  town  pump  on  one  side  of  the  Place, 
and  began  to  work  the  handle. 

179 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

Caspi  —  it  had  a  creak  that  would  have  stirred  the 
Seven  Sleepers!  He  felt  a  little  pricking  of  sweat,  while 
he  wondered  how  it  would  seem  to  have  shutters  thrown 
open  and  citizens  come  running,  laughing  and  swearing 
together  when  they  discovered  the  cause  of  the  dis- 
turbance. 

But  his  luck  held.  Now  it  was  Flouro  who  saved  the 
situation.  Perhaps  her  emotions  had  been  gradually 
swelling  until  they  boiled  over.  She  sat  down  and  flung 
back  her  head  in  such  a  keening  as  might  have  stirred 
her  primeval  mates  from  their  dust.  It  was  like  the  spirit 
of  desolation  wailing  over  the  lost,  somewhat  in  these 
notes,  many  times  repeated: 


A  dog  in  the  village  took  it  up,  and  then  another  across 
the  valley;  and  any  one  of  the  three  would  have  drowned 
the  pump.  So  Trillon  filled  his  pails  without  discovery, 
the  town  being  well-used  to  dogs,  perhaps  from  the  ancient 
day  when  it  was  an  Arab  settlement.  He  went  home  and 
refreshed  his  farmyard,  setting  aside  enough  for  his  break- 
fast and  —  O  ye  who  revile  Provence !  —  even  a  small 
portion  for  a  morning  wash. 

Then,  when  he  should  have  been  star-gazing  and  dream- 
ing of  Madeloun,  he  went  to  bed  and  slept  soundly. 


1 80 


CHAPTER  XX 

ALL  FOR  A  CUP  OF  MILK 

WHEN  the  dawn  broke  through  his  doorless  doorway, 
he  sat  up  and  brushed  the  yellow  tangle  out  of  his  eyes, 
wondering,  for  the  moment,  where  he  was.  It  was  a 
matter  of  seconds  to  remember  that  he  was  in  his  own 
farmstead,  on  his  own  land,  and  had  only  to  persuade 
the  little  Provencal  world  about  him  that  what  they  had 
all  their  lives  regarded  as  a  quarry  was  in  reality  a  mas. 

He  wasted  no  time  wondering  how  he  should  go  about 
this  trifle.  Hunger  pressed,  and  his  mind  did  not  soar 
above  or  beyond  breakfast. 

He  went  outside  on  his  headland,  and  stood  with  a 
brisk  wind  ruffling  his  feathery  hair.  The  sea  of  plain 
at  his  feet  was  smoke-purple  with  heat.  The  day's  work 
—  if  work  was  demanded  of  him  —  would  be  hot  and 
hot  enough. 

He  sheltered  his  oil-stove  in  a  box,  and  set  a  little  of  his 
precious  water  on  to  boil.  Then  half-dressed  and  wholly 
disinclined  for  action  of  any  sort,  he  strolled  idly  to  the 
edge  of  his  rock  and  looked  down  into  the  plain,  wonder- 
ing what  Fortune  would  bring  him  that  day.  He  wished 

181 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

it  might  be  milk,  hating  black  coffee  so  early  in  the  day. 
To  be  sure,  he  could  do  without  the  object  of  his  desire, 
whether  it  were  milk  or  Madeloun;  but  he  was  not  minded 
to  be  so  deprived.  He  returned  to  the  fire,  got  out  his 
dishes,  his  bread,  set  his  coffee  a-steeping,  and  wandered 
to  the  opposite  side  of  his  territory  where  the  country 
track  winds  along  from  the  village.  He  thought  some- 
thing might  turn  up  to  his  advantage. 

Believe  me  or  not,  he  had  not  been  three  minutes  in  the 
place,  on  a  boulder  some  twenty  feet  high  that  overhung 
the  mountain  road,  before  he  heard  a  tinkle  that  pealed 
in  his  heart  as  gaily  as  wedding-bells;  for  his  keen  glance 
spied,  together  with  the  sheep  and  the  shepherd,  a  brown 
goat  trailing  in  the  rear  of  the  little  flock. 

He  had  no  knowledge  that  the  slim  youth  who  came 
last  was  that  very  Ramoun  whose  eyes  had  been  wont  to 
burn  Madaleno's  neck  when  he  sat  behind  her  in  the 
church  of  a  Sunday;  but  the  shepherd  had  heard  much 
talk  in  the  village,  the  night  before,  and  it  was  with  no 
friendly  eyes  that  he  surveyed  the  well-balanced,  square 
figure  on  the  rock  above  him. 

He  gave  no  attention  to  the  "Good  day,"  that 
came  down  to  him;  but  bent  his  head  with  sulky  mouth 
and  eyes,  and  prepared  to  pass  on,  mute. 

Then  the  man  with  the  tousled  yellow  hair  made  an 
extraordinary  sound  between  a  cackle  and  a  crow  —  his 
attempt  at  the  noise  of  the  Capoun-Fkr  —  which  startled 
the  passer-by  into  a  halt  and  a  backward  glance. 

"What  language  do  you  speak,  then,  if  not  that  of  the 
country?"  complained  Trillon.  "I  said  good-day." 

182 


ALL  FOR  A   CUP  OF  MILK 

"I  have  no  good-day  for  you,"  growled  Ramoun.  "You 
are  no  friend  of  mine." 

"  Bless  you,  boy,  what  would  you  ?  It  is  not  a  question 
of  friendship,  but  of  milk." 

Ramoun  looked  about  him,  as  if  to  gather  from  the 
landscape  whether  he  could  have  heard  aright. 

"Yes,"  said  Trillon  serenely,  and  sat  down  on  the  turf 
that  half  covered  the  boulder,  for  his  greater  ease.  "You 
are  quite  right.  This  is  the  Mas  of  Artaban;  but  the  cows 
are  not  yet  in  working  order." 

"The  Pit  of—"  began  Ramoun. 

But  Trillon  was  firm:  "The  Mas  of  Artaban,  I  said. 
Come  up  and  see  the  stock." 

Clearly  it  was  a  madman,  as  some  of  the  village  had 
insisted ;  or  a  devil  —  Ramoun  crossed  himself  to  be  on 
the  safe  side;  and  wished  he  were  a  little  nearer  the  chapel 
of  the  Maries,  that  they  might  lend  him  of  their  virtue. 

While  he  was  so  engaged,  the  head  above  disappeared, 
and  he  moved  slowly  onward,  remembering  old  legends 
of  demons  and  apparitions;  but  he  had  not  gone  twenty 
paces  before  a  white  enamel  cup  came  flying  down  hi  his 
path  and  set  the  hindmost  sheep  kicking,  while  the  owner 
of  the  vessel  surveyed  him  from  the  top  of  the  bank,  and 
called:  "Fill  it.  You  have  a  goat." 

"  Tron  de  I'tr!"  stormed  the  shepherd,  coming  suddenly 
into  his  manhood.  "Jump  down  and  I'll  show  you!" 

"Show  me  what?"  asked  Trillon,  stretching  out  a 
leisurely  leg,  as  if  with  some  thought  of  descending. 

Ramoun  muttered,  but  was  inarticulate  through  rage. 

"What  have  I  done  to  you?"  asked  Trillon  calmly. 

183 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

"Or,  if  you  won't  give  me  the  milk,  sell  me  the  goat.    I 
have  need  of  one." 

Ramoun  made  a  sudden  ineffectual  dash  up  the  bank; 
but  slipped  back  again,  stumbling  and  almost  losing  his 
balance. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you?"  asked  Trillon  again, 
and  hi  two  bounds  or  three  was  down  the  slope  and  facing 
the  irate  shepherd. 

Out  of  a  tangle  of  words,  "Madaleno"  alone  was 
intelligible. 

A  light  broke  upon  Trillon:  "Come,  now,  I  understand. 
We  are  rivals.  But  as  she  is  safely  locked  up  in  a  convent, 
I  don't  see  why  that  should  interfere  with  my  cup  of 
milk." 

"I  hate  you  —  I  hate  you — "stuttered  Ramoun,  be- 
tween his  teeth. 

"You  are  over- hasty,  my  friend,"  says  Trillon.  "It 
would  be  much  more  sensible  to  exchange  a  cup  of  milk 
for  a  cup  of  coffee  at  this  early  hour  of  the  morn  — " 

His  utterance  was  choked  by  the  grip  of  Ramoun  on 
his  throat ;  and  for  a  moment  or  two  they  had  it  back  and 
forth  very  fiercely.  Before  either  prevailed,  Flouro  came 
plunging  down  the  slope  after  her  master,  and  attacked 
the  sheep-dog;  and  the  double  duel  progressed  merrily, 
while  the  sheep  began  to  scatter  like  thistledown,  some 
towards  the  plain  and  some  towards  the  wild  mountains. 

Perceiving  this,  Ramoun  ceased  his  aggression,  and 
struggled  to  free  himself,  for  it  was  Trillon  now  who  had 
the  advantage.  But  sense  of  the  danger  of  his  flock  so 
wrought  within  the  young  shepherd  that  his  wrench  grew 

184 


ALL  FOR  A   CUP  OF  MILK 

desperate,  he  staggered  back  loose,  barely  saved  himself 
from  falling,  called  off  his  dog  and  ran. 

Trillon  looked  after  him  a  moment,  picked  up  his  cup 
and  thrust  it  into  his  pocket,  and  retreated  to  the  top  of 
the  bank  to  watch  and  wait. 

Fortune  favoured  him  so  far  as  to  send  a  brace  of  ewes 
pattering  his  way;  and  so  startled  were  they,  coming  upon 
him  unexpectedly  at  the  top  of  the  rock,  that  aided  by  the 
steepness  of  the  slope  and  the  unwieldiness  of  the  beasts,  he 
was  able  to  clutch  one  under  each  arm,  and  with  a  mighty 
effort  to  hold  it  struggling  there.  But  he  prayed  —  or  at 
least  he  swore  —  that  Ramoun  might  return  quickly. 

If  the  shepherd  was  astonished  before,  at  his  first 
glimpse  of  the  tousle-headed  man,  imagine  his  feelings 
upon  returning  with  the  collected  bulk  of  his  flock,  ready 
to  descend  to  the  plains,  upon  perceiving  this  same  mad 
individual  hugging  two  of  his  biggest  ewes. 

But  before  he  could  protest,  Trillon  suddenly  released 
them,  heading  them  downwards  so  that  they  should 
quickly  find  the  remainder  of  their  family  and  seek  the 
shelter  of  numbers.  Then  he  rubbed  his  hands  together 
and  laughed  at  Ramoun:  "I  bear  you  no  grudge;  and  I 
think  I  have  earned  a  cup  of  goat's  milk.  What  say  you  ? 
And  my  offer  of  the  coffee  still  holds  good."  He  drew 
out  his  cup  and  looked  at  it  pensively. 

"Throw  it  down,"  says  Ramoun,  very  red;  and  when 
he  had  satisfied  himself  that  his  dog  alone  could  manage 
the  flock,  he  captured  the  goat,  drew  it  aside  and  began 
milking. 

Trillon  descended  at  his  leisure  and  watched  the  process. 

185 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

When  the  cup  foamed,  Ramoun  held  it  up  until  it  was 
taken;  then  got  to  his  feet  and  said  emphatically:  "I 
won't  have  the  debt  on  my  side.  You  may  be  a 
madman,  but  if  you  are  up  to  any  tricks  with  that  girl, 
and  get  her  out  of  the  convent,  as  they  say  up  in  the  village 
you  mean  to  do,  then  you  have  me  to  reckon  with,  if  you 
bring  her  to  this  place  to  live  —  that  is  all.  And  as  for 
your  coffee  —  I  spit  at  it!" 

It  was  a  long  speech  for  him  to  make,  but  it  came  fo  a 
sad  conclusion,  for  the  end  of  the  sentence  was  drowned 
in  a  gush  of  foaming  warm  milk  that  whitened  his  dark 
hair,  splashed  his  clothes,  and  washed  his  face  as  it  had 
not  been  washed  for  many  a  day,  even  trickling  in  warm 
currents  between  his  neck  and  his  shirt-band. 

Blinded,  he  made  a  forward  dash,  was  whirled  to  the 
ground,  and  punished  for  his  presumption. 

"When  you  are  ready,"  said  Trillon  between  blows, 
"to  milk  me  another  —  say."  And  in  time  Ramoun 
made  a  sign,  though  not  in  words,  and  was  allowed  to 
get  up. 

The  liquid  that  rolled  down  his  face  was  not  milk,  and 
he  was  sufficiently  subdued  to  take  the  cup  at  Trillon's 
hands  and  proceed  to  its  second  filling. 

When  it  was  ready,  he  would  have  set  it  on  the  earth; 
but  Trillon  was  peremptory,  and  he  handed  it  up.  He 
was  amazed  as  he  still  stooped  on  the  ground,  perhaps  too 
dizzy  to  rise,  by  the  dropping  of  a  franc  on  his  hand. 

"I  pay  for  what  I  get,"  says  Trillon.  "Now,  go  tell 
the  village  what  you  please." 

"It  is  enough  for  this  time,"  answered  Ramoun,  with 

186 


ALL  FOR  A   CUP  OF  MILK 

a  black  glance,  speaking  thickly  through  cut  and  swollen 
lips,  "but  I  do  not  forget.  And  I  do  not  take  your  franc." 

"So  much  the  worse  for  you,"  quoth  Trillon,  picking 
up  the  coin  from  the  earth. 

He  waited  until  the  shepherd  had  gone  a  short  distance, 
swabbing  his  face  as  best  could  be  done  with  his  coat- 
sleeve,  then  spun  the  bit  of  silver  so  that  it  flew  like  a 
pebble  and  landed  in  the  small  of  the  retreating  back. 

Ramoun  turned,  furious,  looked  at  his  persecutor,  then 
at  the  coin,  seemed  to  comprehend  that  the  process 
might  continue  indefinitely,  and  pocketed  the  franc. 
"Very  good,"  said  he,  "I  take  it  so  that  I  may  remember." 

"Do,"  says  Trillon;  and  carefully  balancing  his 
dearly-purchased  breakfast,  he  climbed  up  to  the  wind- 
mill, and  ate  with  an  excellent  appetite. 


187 


CHAPTER  XXI 

SETTLING  IN 

IT  is  not  often  that  a  farm  may  be  evolved  out  of  a 
quarry  in  a  single  day;  still  with  youth,  fertility,  and  a 
strong  dramatic  sense,  one  may  do  much. 

Trillon's  first  act,  after  the  memorable  breakfast  that 
had  cost  him  so  much  time  and  trouble,  was  to  sit  down 
over  a  smoke  and  consult  with  Flouro  as  to  the  best  means 
of  beginning  this  curious  metamorphosis. 

"Floureto,"  says  he,  "we'll  get  out  our  papers  and 
we'll  mark  off  our  land,  and  set  up  some  sort  of  barrier, 
so  that  you  will  know  when  strangers  overstep  the  mark, 
and  treat  them  accordingly.  Eh,  then?  Say  yes." 

And  of  course  Flouro  barked  unqualified  assent. 

"Then  we  will  send  out  a  search  party,  composed  of 
yourself,  the  mule  and  me,  to  find  the  nearest  water,  and 
to  devise  how  it  may  be  turned  upon  the  estate  —  hein?" 

Flouro  offering  no  objection,  he  proceeded,  "Further, 
we  must  clear  the  land  of  stones  in  time  for  the  autumn 
sowing  and  planting,  and  we  must  arrange  some  sort  of 
dwelling  for  the  pretty  maid  that  we  shall  steal  out  of  her 
convent  presently,  and  bring  here  —  eh,  what  ?  You  like 

188 


SETTLING  IN 

that,  Floureto?  And  when  we  have  married  her  by  fair 
means  or  other,  what  then,  old  dog,  what  then?  What 
will  be  left  to  do  ?  With  no  curse,  no  fighting,  nothing  to 
stir  up  a  man's  liver,  shall  we  have  to  sit  down  and  smoke 
all  day  and  grow  old  together,  yellow  dog?  It  sounds 
dull  and  dull  enough,  but  perhaps  there  will  be  some 
little  excitement  by  the  way;  and  at  the  least,  we  need  not 
look  forward  to  the  morrow.  To-day  has  its  own  living." 

He  went  within  the  windmill  and  brought  forth  the  box 
containing  his  rights  of  land,  purchased  with  considerable 
expense,  notwithstanding  a  large  bonus  of  derision,  at  the 
prefecture  in  Marseilles.  Long  he  pondered  over  meas- 
ures and  boundaries,  then  carefully  set  away  the  docu- 
ments, and  taking  a  hoe  proceeded  to  make  the  rounds 
of  his  estate.  It  was  a  primitive  kind  of  surveying  — 
even  Flouro  could  not  understand  it,  as  she  followed  with 
discouraged  tail  all  the  ups  and  downs  of  her  master. 

I  will  not  say  that  Trillon  was  over- accurate;  when  his 
hoe  scratched  the  inner  side  of  a  boulder,  this  served  very 
well  as  boundary  line;  when  the  rock  was  small,  and  there 
arose  a  question  whether  he  should  omit  it  or  take  it  in, 
Trillon  went  round.  If  error  there  was,  it  was  for  Mar- 
seilles to  correct  it;  but,  indeed,  the  land  was  waste,  and 
there  was  no  soul  in  the  world  mad  enough  to  look  at  it 
but  himself. 

Half  he  sighed,  and  half  he  chuckled,  when  his  sur- 
veying took  him  to  the  edge  of  the  cliff,  and  he  could  look 
down  upon  the  fat  lands  of  the  plain  with  their  olives  and 
their  vineyards  and  their  almonds.  It  would  take  a  little 
grubbing,  he  decided,  to  make  his  mas  look  like  that;  and 

189 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

all  at  once,  moved  by  the  spirit  of  experiment,  he  reached 
for  a  fair-sized  boulder,  as  large  as  he  could  lift,  and 
heaved  it  over  the  cliff,  watching  it  descend  leaping  from 
point  to  point,  until  it  splintered  against  the  stone  wall  of 
the  nearest  olive-garden. 

"One  method  of  stone-breaking,"  he  said,  straightening 
his  shoulders,  "but  to  clear  all  one's  land  in  that  fashion — 
eh,  well,  I  must  find  an  easier  way.  Some  boulders  we 
might  build  up  into  boundary  walls  —  hein?  We  shall 
see." 

He  continued  his  round  up  the  hill-path  that  encircled 
the  Pit,  wherein  his  mule  was  nosing  with  an  anxious  ex- 
pression such  herbage  as  he  could  find,  where  the  sheep 
looked  discouraged,  and  where  the  fowls  were  scratching 
and  comparing  notes  over  the  small  pebbles  and  shards 
of  ancient  pottery  that  they  could  not  identify;  and 
down  he  came  on  the  other  side,  where  the  descent  was 
far  too  steep  for  comfort;  and  at  last  he  could  say  that 
he  had  surveyed  his  scrag  of  property.  How  to  measure 
it  in  acres  I  cannot  tell ;  it  was  a  chunk  of  mountain  partly 
hollowed  out  into  quarry. 

But  Trillon  was  not  content  until  he  had  made  the 
journey  repeatedly  with  pick  and  spade,  and  had  dug  out 
a  perceptible  trench,  marking  it  here  and  there  with  such 
big  stones  as  lay  near.  By  evening  he  had  done  the  hardest 
day's  work  of  his  life,  and  while  wondering  whether  he 
had  strained  his  back  for  all  time,  he  was  pleased  to  note 
a  perceptible  scratch  on  the  earth,  and  a  succession  of 
boulders  that,  studied  with  attention,  might  be  taken  to 
mark  the  outline  of  an  estate.  Any  ordinary  man,  view- 

190 


SETTLING  IN 

ing  the  land  within  from  the  standpoint  of  farming,  might 
have  been  discouraged,  seeing  it  warted  like  a  monstrous 
toad  with  all  manner  of  rocks  and  stones,  scrofulous  with 
furze-bushes,  aromatic  with  a  scattered  growth  of  utterly 
useless  plants,  powdered  over  with  fine  pebbles  and 
minute  fragments  of  ancient  pottery,  Arabic,  Samian, 
Greek,  prehistoric  —  all  highly  ornamental,  when  sifted 
and  labelled  in  a  museum,  but  a  little  out  of  place  on  a 
farm.  I  am  afraid  the  practical  man,  upon  surveying 
this  field,  would  have  cried  out  that  it  would  be  no  more 
difficult  to  get  a  harvest  from  the  sea.  But  Trillon  sang 
as  he  worked,  and  whistled  when  he  got  out  his  bread 
and  cheese,  and  was  silent  only  while  he  ate  and  slept. 
Doubtless,  he  lacked  the  sense  to  be  discouraged.  I 
never  claimed  for  him  ordinary  intelligence. 

The  only  diversion  that  he  allowed  himself  all  that  day 
was  a  short  journey,  immediately  after  his  siesta,  to  find 
the  nearest  spring.  He  had  wondered  a  little  that  none 
of  the  villagers  had  come  to  look  on  during  the  initiation 
of  his  work;  and  was  indeed  somewhat  loth  to  return  to 
Castelar  at  this  stage  for  information  in  regard  to  water. 
His  ignorance  on  this  point,  even  to  his  own  mind,  implied 
a  certain  lack  of  foresight.  However,  he  saw  no  help  for 
it,  and  prepared  to  swallow  his  pride  as  gracefully  and 
as  cheerfully  as  might  be.  He  slung  two  great  water-cans 
upon  his  mule,  and  himself  mounting,  turned  the  beast 
along  the  rough  mountain  track. 

But  before  he  had  proceeded  very  far  beyond  the  end 
of  his  own  promontory,  Fortune  was  kind  to  him  and  sent 
him  help  in  the  way  of  a  village  girl  returning  from  Mont- 

191 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

paon,  where  she  had  been  on  a  visit,  as  he  judged  by  the 
little  pack  she  carried. 

She  looked  at  him  with  such  wondering  eyes  that  it  was 
clear  she  knew  nothing  of  his  arrival.  Her  face  seemed 
to  him  vaguely  familiar;  but  he  did  not  identify  her  with 
that  very  Jano-Mario  who  had  been  sewing  with  Made- 
loun  on  the  first  day  of  his  coming.  She,  however,  re- 
membered him  very  well,  but  she  could  not,  invoke  the 
Saints  as  she  would,  account  for  his  presence  at  Castelar, 
when  poor  Madeloun  was  many  kilometres  away  in  a 
convent  .  .  . 

"My  pretty  child,"  said  he  politely,  with  a  bewildering 
sweep  of  the  hat,  "you  would  do  me  a  great  service  if  you 
would  direct  me  to  the  nearest  spring." 

"But,  monsieur,"  she  objected,  "it  is  twenty  minutes 
away,  up  in  the  mountains  yonder." 

"Mademoiselle,"  said  he,  "if  it  were  a  thousand  leagues, 
I  must  have  water." 

She  stared  at  this  mad  speech;  and  before  she  had 
collected  her  wits,  he  resumed:  "If  you  would  but  set  me 
on  the  right  way,  I  shall  nose  it  out  —  never  fear." 

She  pointed  then,  and  gave  one  or  two  brief  directions, 
and  was  overwhelmed  by  the  vigour  of  his  thanks. 

"Monsieur,"  said  she  rather  timidly,  "was  it  not  you 
who  climbed  over  the  wall — ?" 

At  this  he  remembered  her.  "Yes,  yes,"  said  he,  "and 
it's  you  who  shall  kick  your  heels  at  Madeloun's  wedding 
not  so  many  weeks  hence.  Bear  that  in  mind.  But  first 
I  must  get  water.  Adessias!" 

He  left  her  to  gape,  and  afterwards  to  carry  up  to  the 

192 


SETTLING  IN 

village  a  report  which  confirmed  the  theory  of  his  mad- 
ness. 

Meanwhile,  he  was  on  the  trail  of  the  spring,  knee-deep 
among  the  sweet  herbs  of  the  mountain;  and  when  he 
found  the  clear  water  and  perceived  how  it  turned  straight 
towards  the  village  itself,  he  knew  that  it  must  be  the  same 
that  he  had  pumped  in  the  night  under  cover  of  the  bark- 
ing of  dogs.  And  he  had  a  moment  of  bitter  oaths,  seeing 
himself  thus  diverted  from  his  plans  of  aqueducts  and 
irrigation.  The  water  was  well  garnered,  that  was  sure; 
and  unless  he  could  find  another  source  .  .  . 

On  the  homeward  way,  when  he  had  come  in  sight  of 
the  mas-to-be  and  its  treasures,  left  in  the  guardianship 
of  Flouro,  he  had  a  brilliant  idea:  "Where  there  is  a  wind- 
mill, there  must  have  been  water.  We  have  only  to  dig." 

With  this  conclusion  he  was  so  well  satisfied  that,  hav- 
ing disposed  of  some  of  his  water  where  it  was  most  needed, 
he  worked  with  fresh  heart  all  the  afternoon,  and  when 
twilight  came  he  was  not  ill-content.  Too  tired  to  cook, 
he  got  out  a  loaf  and  cheese  and  wine,  and  flung  himself 
on  the  ground,  resting  on  his  two  elbows,  while  he  munched 
and  drank  and  considered. 

"I  suppose  the  Trinquetailles  spent  their  time  wander- 
ing about  and  doing  mad  things  while  the  Trillons  were 
sticking  their  pigs  and  stuffing  them  into  sausages.  They 
built  their  castle  up  there  where  there's  scarcely  room  for 
a  crow  to  settle;  I  build  my  mas  down  here  where  no 
blade  of  grass  grows.  It's  all  the  same.  It's  not  what 
you  do,  but  what  you  persuade  other  people  that  you  do 
—  that's  the  thing  .  .  .  There's  the  tale  Pons  tells  about 

193 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

the  three  fellows  who  talked  the  countryman  into  believing 
that  his  new  shoes  were  a  pair  of  partridges.  Well,  Cas- 
telar  is  the  countryman,  and  if  my  head  isn't  worth  any 
other  three  in  Avignon,  then  I'm  altogether  Trillon  and 
not  Trinquetaille.  It  shall  be  done;  and  then  —  then 
there's  always  the  world  to  conquer,  as  those  old  chaps 
up  there  conquered  all  they  could  lay  hands  on  ... 
Every  man  has  his  chance  once  in  a  life  .  .  .  but  it  does 
not  do  to  begin  with  a  curse  —  not  that.  Eh,  well, 
there's  Madeloun,  and  then  .  .  .?" 

He  paused  and  looked  across  into  the  heavy  gloom  of 
the  plains:  "I  wonder  if  any  other  man  on  earth  would 
be  so  big  a  fool  as  me?" 

He  did  not  answer  the  question  —  perhaps  the  reply 
was  too  obvious. 

But  less  to  be  taken  for  granted  was  his  conclusion: 
"Nothing  is  impossible  in  this  world,  if  a  man  once  sets 
about  it." 


194 


CHAPTER   XXII 

THE   CLEARING   OF   THE   LAND 

HE  was  awakened  the  next  morning  by  a  great  fusilade 
of  barks  from  Flouro;  and  coming  forth  from  his  den, 
shaggy,  still  flushed  with  sleep,  he  perceived  a  procession 
of  dignitaries  approaching  along  the  track  from  Castelar. 

A  moment  he  stared,  whistled,  chuckled,  and  slapped 
his  knee;  then  he  throttled  the  yellow  dog,  dragged  her 
back  ignominiously  and  tied  her  up  in  a  corner  of  the  mill. 

With  his  usual  perspicacity,  he  had  perceived  the  object 
of  this  delegation,  and  decided  to  turn  it  aside  with  friend- 
liness. He  brought  into  easy  reach  the  few  cups  and 
other  drinking  vessels  that  he  possessed,  saw  to  it  that  he 
could  lay  hands  on  several  bottles  by  no  means  empty, 
and  proceeded  to  the  preparation  of  his  little  break- 
fast, quite  undisturbed. 

When  the  first  of  the  men  from  Castelar  appeared 
above  the  bank  by  which  the  windmill  was  reached  from 
the  road,  Trillon  was  nothing  more  than  an  amiable  if 
surprised  host.  Quick  as  lightning,  before  a  word  was 
uttered  on  either  side,  he  had  looked  them  over  and 
summed  them  up.  They  were  only  six  or  seven  in  num- 

195 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

her,  but  they  were  headed  by  the  mayor,  a  grizzled  parch- 
ment farmer  with  no  small  sense  of  his  importance. 

And  just  as  this  personage  opened  his  mouth  to  speak, 
Trillon  was  stung  with  an  idea,  and  forestalled. 

"Neighbours,"  said  he,  and  his  yellow  eyes  twinkled 
like  leaping  fires,  "it  is  early  in  the  morning  for  questions, 
but  which  of  you  would  like  a  fat  pullet?" 

The  mayor's  mouth  continued  to  open,  but  it  was  with 
the  dropping  of  his  jaw.  You  might  also  have  heard  the 
click  of  other  jaws  as  the  men  of  Castelar  huddled  together; 
you  must  remember,  they  thought  they  were  dealing  with 
a  madman. 

"I  ask,"  he  continued  serenely,  "because  I  have  one 
here  that  with  good  luck  shall  be  cooked  by  the  wife  of 
him  who  can  win  it." 

He  was  not  mad.  I  do  assure  you  he  had  as  clear  a 
purpose  as  ever  dominated  him  in  his  life,  before  or  after; 
but  even  he  himself  was  a  little  dismayed  by  the  speed 
with  which  it  had  swooped  and  mastered  him.  He  had 
not  known  a  second  before  he  spoke  what  he  was  going  to 
say;  and  now  that  the  idea  was  uttered,  it  was  as  clear 
as  sunlight  to  him  why  he  had  spoken  and  what  he  meant 
to  get.  But  he  was  more  astonished  than  usual  at  his 
own  cleverness. 

"Look  you,"  said  he,  visibly  expanding,  as  he  unfolded 
the  scheme.  "I  tie  my  pullet  by  the  leg  to  a  boulder  — 
so.  You  stand  so  far  away  —  in  a  line,  you  see  —  and 
the  man  that  brings  her  down  has  a  good  pot  to-morrow." 

I  do  not  think  the  idea  was  his  own.  I  believe  it  came 
from  an  old  Almanac,  or  something  of  the  sort,  that  he  had 

196 


THE  CLEARING  OF  THE  LAND 

read,  years  before,  at  Mercadou's  among  the  violins;  but 
the  notion  had  lingered  in  his  mind  all  this  time,  waiting 
a  useful  occasion.  Whether  anyone  else  ever  tried  it,  I 
have  no  means  of  knowing. 

But  while  the  men  of  Castelar  gaped  and  nudged  one 
another,  and  the  mayor  stood  hi  frozen  dignity,  he  had 
leaped  into  his  farmyard,  once  the  Pit  of  Artaban,  and 
captured  a  fluttering,  squawking  victim.  When  the 
mayor  made  another  attempt  at  the  business  that  had 
brought  the  party  thither,  he  did  not  get  beyond  a  "I  have 
been  asked  in  behalf  of  .  .  ." 

Trillon  interrupted  gaily:  "After,  my  friend,  after.  It's 
a  question  now  of  a  pullet.  Does  not  your  mouth  water  ? 
Look  —  I  will  tie  her  on  a  pinnacle  of  the  rock,  yonder 
on  the  point.  You  shall  draw  cuts  for  first  chance,  and 
we  shall  soon  see  who  is  best  shot." 

A  second  time  the  mayor  would  have  spoken;  but  one 
of  the  younger  men  was  already  scratching  a  line  through 
the  rubble  to  the  earth.  It  was  clear  that  all  the  fingers 
itched  to  try.  The  mayor  stepped  aside,  and  the  men 
threw  themselves  into  the  business  with  so  much  heart 
that  it  would  have  seemed  to  a  passer-by  that  they  had 
come  for  nothing  else. 

Now,  mark  you,  the  line  that  they  were  to  toe  was  well 
within  the  boundaries  of  Trillon's  estate;  and  the  pullet 
was  attached  a  long  way  without.  Do  you  see?  And 
the  weapons?  These  were  the  small  stones  that  would 
encumber  Trillon's  wheat  from  growing  if  ever  he  sowed 
wheat,  or  his  teazles  or  his  haricot  beans.  And  more 
rapidly  than  you  can  read,  the  men  of  Castelar  were 

197 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

filling  their  pockets  with  pebbles  useless  for  any  purpose 
except  perhaps  to  bring  down  pullets  at  a  distance  of  so 
many  metres. 

One  scarcely  knew  how  the  shooting  began.  But  while 
public  attention  was  concentrated  on  the  prize,  Trillon 
was  mustering  glasses  and  bottles,  and  preparing  coffee 
for  those  whose  taste  was  not  for  stronger  drink  so  early 
in  the  morning. 

I  cannot  tell  you  whether  he  had  chosen  his  fowl  with 
discretion,  or  whether  his  unfailing  luck  was  to  blame; 
but  there  never  was  a  more  nervous  pullet  born;  and  as 
the  distance  had  been  nicely  judged,  she  fluttered  about 
unscathed  in  a  rain  of  small  stones.  One  or  two  swore 
that  the  devil  was  in  the  bird,  for  she  flew  high  as  a  man 
aimed  low,  and  when  he  thought  to  bring  her  down,  she 
was  roosting  on  the  boulder  as  if  she  had  never  moved. 
And  there  grew  a  widening  bare  spot  about  the  feet  of 
the  unsuspecting  Corporation. 

It  was  martyrdom  for  the  fowl.  She  would  have  had  my 
profoundest  sympathy,  had  I  not  known  that  a  single  peb- 
ble would  have  produced  fully  as  much  agitation  in  her 
sensitive  breast,  while  a  hail  of  them  might  be  conceived 
as  adding  a  degree  of  pleasurable  excitement  to  the  game. 
And  she  had  but  the  one  death  to  die. 

But  presently,  there  came  protest  from  among  the 
players.  Clearly  the  bird  was  too  far  away.  There  was 
not  a  man  among  them  who  understood  the  meaning  of 
Trillon's  grin,  as  he  turned  their  attention  to  the  various 
means  of  quenching  thirst  that  he  had  provided,  and 
obediently  went  to  alter  the  arrangement.  When  he  had 

198 


THE  CLEARING  OF  THE  LAND 

done,  they  were  satisfied  that  the  distance  was  more 
measurable;  and  did  not  perceive  until  they  were  lined 
up  that  the  sun  would  be  in  their  eyes,  and  that  the  in- 
ventor of  the  game  had  kindly  moved  them  to  a  spot 
where  there  was  a  fresh  and  bountiful  supply  of  small 
stones. 

They  threw  again  and  the  pullet  continued  her  gyra- 
tions more  madly  than  before.  Dazed  by  the  strong  hot 
light,  they  began  to  swear  oaths  that  the  creature  was 
bewitched. 

"No,"  says  Trillon.  "She's  an  honest  fowl,  and  any 
way  I  am  not  responsible  for  her  character;  but  you  shall 
have  another,  if  you  like." 

They  were  ashamed  to  insist,  the  more  so  as  Trillon's 
hospitality  abounded.  To  be  sure,  it  was  still  early  in 
the  day,  but  much  violent  exercise  makes  men  thirsty  .  .  . 

It  was  the  host  himself  who  perceived  that  it  was  wise 
to  remove  the  game  to  a  third  station;  and  this  time  he  so 
adjusted  light  and  distance  that  the  pullet  herself,  weary 
of  the  fun,  and  having  come  to  regard  a  rain  of  stones  as 
a  law  of  nature,  at  last  settled  down  in  a  dumpy  heap, 
and  was  bagged  by  the  mayor. 

Upon  this  there  was  much  drinking  and  merry-making. 
The  Corporation  decided  that  Trillon  was  not  mad  after 
all;  and  so  well  enjoyed  his  company  that  they  might  have 
stayed  there  the  whole  day,  but  for  the  winged  arrival  of 
a  small  boy  who  shouted  that  Madame  la  Mairesse  was  on 
her  way  thither,  with  a  word  or  two  on  her  tongue. 

Thereupon  the  party  came  to  an  abrupt  end;  and  not  a 
man  among  them  remembered  at  first  the  original  errand. 

199 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

The  mayor  turned  homeward,  with  a  small  inward  prayer 
of  thanks  that  he  had  a  gift  of  propitiation  tucked  under 
his  arm;  the  Corporation  followed  almost  as  light-hearted, 
in  that  they  were  not  as  yet  sought  out  by  wives  with  a 
word  or  two  on  their  tongues. 

They  were  already  climbing  the  slope  into  the  little 
town,  still  under  the  convoy  of  the  winged  small  boy, 
when  one  that  had  a  bad  name  among  his  companions 
for  being  more  jealous  than  the  others,  after  some  con- 
sideration, spoke  up:  "But  in  the  end,  neighbours,  how 
do  we  know  that  the  fellow  has  any  right  in  the  world  to 
the  land  he  has  grabbed?" 

"Do  you  want  his  stone-heaps,  Anseume?"  said  an- 
other, punching  the  objector's  ribs. 

"Not  I,"  said  he.  "But  I  have  left  my  work  all  the 
morning,  being  assured  by  the  mayor  that  it  was  a  public 
duty;  and  what  have  I  got  for  my  pains  .  .  .?" 

"All  that,"  said  the  mayor,  waving  a  majestic  hand, 
"all  that  will  adjust  itself  later." 

Not  more  than  his  following  did  the  excellent  man  see 
with  his  eyes  or  in  imagination,  the  look  that  Trillon  sent 
after  the  group,  as  he  stood  alone  with  Flouro,  chuckling 
over  the  three  great  bare  tracts  in  his  mas.  "The  labour 
was  cheap  at  the  price,"  he  informed  the  dog.  "If  I  go 
on  as  I  have  begun,  I  shall  be  a  rich  man  through  no  fault 
of  my  own.  What  it  is  to  have  a  brain  —  eh,  Flouro  ? 
If  Madeloun  does  not  appreciate  what  she  is  getting  .  .  ." 

He  sat  down  to  his  breakfast  and  a  long  smoke.  What 
was  the  need  of  working?  He  had  only  to  think  up 
something  else  .  .  . 

200 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

HOW  THE  WORK  WENT  ON 

As  a  result  of  his  meditations,  Trillon  arose  early  the 
next  morning,  and  went  into  the  village.  He  had  a  plan. 

It  was  a  holiday,  and  he  found,  as  he  expected  to  find, 
some  half-dozen  boys  playing  bowls  under  the  Cross 
before  the  church.  It  was  a  game  of  rivalry:  the  one 
who  hit  the  mark  most  frequently  in  a  given  number  of 
trials  pocketed  the  sous  of  the  entire  company.  Trillon 
watched  them  for  some  time,  while  they  cast  upon  him 
timid  sidelong  glances,  being  too  awed  by  his  reputation 
to  address  him. 

When  he  had  stood  by  long  enough,  as  he  judged,  he 
said:  "I  know  a  better  game  than  that." 

And  when  they  asked  him  what,  he  said  it  could  be 
taught  only  at  the  Pit  of  Artaban. 

At  this,  some  were  frightened,  but  others  were  curious. 
"Come,  then,  if  you  like.  There  will  be  more  sous  in  it 
than  you  have  seen  for  many  a  long  day."  He  strolled 
away  easily,  his  hands  thrust  into  his  red  sash,  his  wide 
sky-blue  trousers  puffing  in  the  wind. 

The  boys  consulted  and  he  let  them  put  their  heads 

201 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

together,  whistling  all  the  while  to  a  tune  of  his  own 
invention : 

"The  sun  stood  high, 
The  wind  blew  dry  —  " 

Two  of  the  bigger  lads  parted  from  the  others  and 
began  to  run  by  his  side. 

"Ever  hear  the  story  of  the  man  who  went  to  Cavaioun 
to  buy  asses'  eggs?"  he  put  to  them  abruptly.  And  at 
the  word  story,  several  who  were  hovering  timidly  about, 
drew  close. 

"Eh,  well,  you  know,"  he  began,  "there  was  a  man 
called  Janet,  who  was  not  very  bright  ..." 

He  had  quite  a  small  gathering  by  this  time,  and  turned 
to  walk  back  along  the  village  street. 

And  still  as  he  went  he  told  how  Janet  toiled  from  shop 
to  shop  hi  search  of  this  strange  commodity,  until  at  last 
he  met  a  merchant  who  was  his  match,  who  sold  him  for 
five  francs  a  big  yellow  melon,  and  bade  him  take  it  home 
carefully  lest  it  hatch  by  the  way  ...  By  the  time  he 
reached  this  point  of  the  adventure,  he  had  so  many  boys 
that  he  might  have  been  a  second  Pied  Piper.  But  the 
girls  he  did  not  encourage. 

The  villagers  whom  he  met  looked  upon  him  with  sus- 
picion, but  nodded  hi  memory  of  past  hospitality.  They 
did  not  incline  to  words,  nor  did  he.  Occasionally  a 
mother  ran  out,  snatched  her  offspring  and  bore  him 
shrieking  away;  but  still  it  was  a  good  company  that 
passed  along  the  road  to  the  Pit  of  Artaban,  and  heard 
how  Janet  was  riding  home  on  his  donkey,  with  his  basket 

202 


HOW  THE  WORK  WENT  ON 

balanced  carefully  before  him ;  and  how  the  donkey  stum- 
bled and  Janet  fell  into  the  road;  and  how  sitting  there 
he  saw  his  precious  egg  fly  and  roll  and  smash  itself  against 
a  tree,  and  beheld  a  small,  grey,  long-eared  thing  bound 
away  into  the  woods;  and  how  he  did  not  budge,  but 
howled  for  the  young  ass  that  he  had  lost.  It  was  not 
until  they  had  nearly  reached  the  Pit  of  Artaban  that  he 
condescended  to  explain  the  mystery: 

"The  melon  had  hit  a  hare,  and  the  hare  ran  —  what 
would  you?" 

The  volunteers  arrived  in  high  good  humour;  and  he 
marshalled  them  on  the  plateau  in  front  of  the  windmill. 

"Now,  my  boys,"  said  he,  "did  any  of  you  ever  hear  of 
one  Marius  who  was  a  great  general  of  the  Romans,  and 
is  still  talked  of  hereabouts  ?" 

"I  know,"  piped  one  voice,  "I  have  heard  my  father 
say  he  made  the  old  road  that  goes  up  into  the  town." 

"  And  there's  Marius's  Camp  on  the  top  of  Bregas, "  said 
another.  "  Did  he  come  here  ?  " 

And  a  third:  "He  fought  a  big  battle  with  somebody 
over  to  the  eastward. " 

And  a  fourth:  "That's  him  cut  in  the  old  stone  under 
the  two  cypresses  on  the  other  side  of  the  hill. " 

"Yes,"  says  Trillon,  "that's  all  true  and  more.  And 
whenever  he  wanted  roads  made  or  bridges  or  anything 
of  the  sort,  he  got  his  soldiers  to  do  it,  and  when  they 
worked  all  together,  it  was  done  as  quickly  as  you  would 
scarcely  believe.  Now  the  game  that  I  mean  is  that  you 
should  be  the  soldiers  of  Marius  and  build  me  a  wall;  and 
to  the  boy  who  makes  his  highest  and  best  by  dinner- 

203 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

time,  I  will  give  a  franc;  but  every  boy  who  builds  any- 
thing at  all  shall  have  some  sous  for  his  work.  What  say 
you  —  hein?" 

They  were  not  slow  to  see,  or  to  approve,  or  to  act. 
Almost  before  the  words  were  out  of  his  mouth,  they  were 
running  to  collect  stones.  But  with  the  instinct  of  the 
true  generalissimo,  he  called  a  halt  until  he  had  measured 
out  such  portions  of  his  estate  as  he  especially  wished  to 
fence  in  for  appearance's  sake,  not  troubling  himself, 
for  example,  where  the  path  climbed  the  hill  steeply. 

In  a  very  short  time  his  legion  was  at  work,  swarm- 
ing and  quarrelling  over  stones  too  large  to  carry,  visibly 
skinning  the  earth  as  they  filled  their  smocks,  and  under 
directions  collected  heaps,  each  by  the  place  where  he 
was  to  build.  And  it  was  not  long  before  the  wall  itself 
—  mur  sec,  I  believe  they  call  it  —  constructed  of  unhewn 
stones,  fitted  into  one  another  loosely  and  without  mortar, 
began  to  be  traceable.  The  width  of  it  Trillon  measured 
off  all  the  way;  and  then  he  left  the  legionaries  to  their  own 
devices,  save  that  now  and  again  he  kept  an  inferior  work- 
man from  sudden  death,  when  threatened  by  his  own  toppling 
structure.  It  was  wonderful  how  much  progress  was  made 
by  the  time  the  church  clock  rang  out  the  hour  of  noon. 

Promptly,  the  majouraie  called  a  halt  and  paid  off. 
Jaquelin,  the  acolyte,  was  accorded  first  prize,  not  with- 
out some  grudging  on  the  part  of  others.  His  piece  of 
wall  stood  nearly  half  a  metre  high,  and  when  one  remem- 
bers that  it  was  almost  a  metre  wide,  one  must  conclude 
that  it  was  not  so  ill  done,  especially  as  it  was  firm  enough 
to  stand  upon,  without  crumbling  away. 

204 


HOW  THE  WORK  WENT  ON 

It  was  three  francs  altogether  that  Trillon  paid  out; 
and  if  anyone  denies  to  him  the  possession  of  true  busi- 
ness instinct,  here  is  the  plain  refutation.  For  this  beg- 
garly sum  he  had  accomplished  as  much  work  as  four 
active  men  would  have  done  in  a  whole  day  at  four  times 
the  cost,  or  as  he  himself,  in  his  leisurely  fashion  of  labour, 
could  have  finished  in  a  week.  And  his  legionaries 
tramped  home  in  varying  degrees  of  high  feather,  to  show 
their  extensive  and  joyously-earned  wealth. 

He  invited  them  to  come  back  if  they  liked,  that  same 
afternoon;  and  spent  the  dinner  hour  walking  the  round 
of  his  mas,  with  bread  and  sardines,  deciding  where  and 
how  the  work  might  be  improved  and  completed. 

Well,  some  of  the  little  band  were  diverted  by  their 
parents,  being  rapped  and  set  to  other  tasks.  But  these, 
note  you,  were  the  inferior  workmen  who  had  brought 
home  the  least  pay.  The  story  had  got  abroad  with 
additions  and  comments,  and  for  every  defection  there 
were  two  fresh  volunteers.  I  must  confess,  however, 
that  except  where  the  profit  had  been  very  large,  as  in 
Jaquelin's  case,  the  fathers  of  the  legionaries  were  still 
ignorant  of  the  proceedings.  They  were  abroad  in  the 
fields  or  in  the  quarries,  and  even  when  they  came  home 
were  not,  for  the  most  part,  told  at  once  of  the  interest- 
ing proceedings  at  the  Pit  of  Artaban.  And  the  mothers, 
as  a  rule,  did  not  count;  some  knew  and  did  not  care; 
some  were  away;  only  a  few  both  knew  and  cared. 

In  the  afternoon,  the  army  was  more  numerous  than 
before  and  worked  unflaggingly.  The  wall  rose  until  in 
places  it  had  to  be  climbed  over.  Trillon,  surveying  the 

205 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

scene,  decided  that  it  would  have  to  be  his  part  later  to  go 
round  and  fill  up  the  chinks.  At  sundown  he  disbursed 
four  francs;  but  there  is  no  doubt  that  full-grown  labour 
would  have  cost  him  five  times  that  sum.  Jaquelin 
smarted  a  little,  for  his  wall  was  only  second  best.  A 
new  recruit,  Guihen,  the  younger  brother  of  Peire,  the 
quarryman,  a  lubberly  chap  of  twelve  or  thereabouts, 
had  carried  off  the  prize,  thus  early  showing  an  instinct 
in  the  handling  of  stone. 

"To-morrow,"  says  Trillon,  when  he  dismissed  them, 
"you  can  come  or  not  as  you  like.  The  francs  are  here, 
and  so  is  the  wall."  There  were  many  besides  Jaquelin 
who  promised  themselves  to  make  good  what  chance 
they  might  have  missed  on  that  day. 

Trillon  ate  in  the  twilight  whatever  he  could  lay  hands 
on,  his  zeal  for  cooking  having  abated  in  the  absence  of 
appreciative  companionship;  then  he  fetched  water  from 
the  distant  spring,  cared  for  his  farmyard;  and  long  after 
the  village  was  in  bed  proceeded  to  carry  on  his  work 
alone. 

It  was  not  wall-building  by  torchlight  that  appealed 
to  his  fancy  now  —  by  no  means.  It  was  something  far 
more  dramatic. 

If  you  had  an  estate  smothered  in  growth  of  furze  and 
broom,  often  to  a  height  of  four  or  five  feet,  how  would 
you  be  rid  of  the  tangle  ?  Trillon  decided  that  the  easiest 
way  was  to  burn  it.  There  had  been  no  rain  for  many 
months,  and  he  found  by  experiment  that  the  stuff  ignited 
like  straw.  A  touch  of  the  match  would  set  the  whole 
sky  aflame. 

206 


HOW  THE  WORK  WENT  ON 

Why  he  waited  until  then,  I  cannot  tell  you.  It  was 
surely  not  that  he  disliked  an  audience  for  his  perform- 
ances; it  was  most  certainly  not  that  he  dreaded  inter- 
ference ;  it  must  have  been,  I  conclude,  sheer  selfish  desire 
to  have  the  spectacle  to  himself,  somewhat  after  the  manner 
of  Nero's  little  conflagration  in  Rome. 

But  whatever  his  motive,  he  went  from  bush  to  bush 
and  from  clump  to  clump,  setting  them  alight  until  all  at 
once  he  was  encircled  by  a  splendour  as  of  many  camp- 
fires.  The  stars  above  grew  pale  over  against  the  myriads 
of  little  golden  serpents  that  ran  in  swift  trails  along  the 
crackling  stems  of  the  furze,  and  the  whole  mountain-side, 
even  down  in  the  hollow  of  Artaban,  was  ruddy  with 
warm  light,  and  jewelled  over  with  flying  sparks. 

When  the  plateau  was  humming  with  the  flames,Tril- 
lon  sat  down  on  a  boulder,  hi  the  heart  of  all  that  radiance, 
his  yellow  dog  huddled  close  to  his  knee  and  shaking  with 
fear  or  with  the  grandeur  of  the  sight,  his  farmyard  mut- 
tering uneasily,  his  mule  snorting  with  baseless  alarm 
that  the  danger  might  somehow  find  communication 
along  the  stones  and  run  to  devour  him.  Oh,  it  was  safe 
enough!  But  Trillon  was  not  thinking  of  safety  or  of 
danger.  There  in  the  stir  and  life  of  the  flames  his 
imagination  was  moved  by  memories  of  Madeloun,  his 
"little  nun,"  as  he  called  her  tenderly  to  himself;  and  he 
got  out  his  fiddle  and  played,  with  no  consciousness, 
however,  that  he  was  aping  a  great  and  evil  lord  of  the 
world. 

It  pleased  his  fancy  to  sit  there  picking  the  strings  into 
tunes  half  remembered,  half  improvised,  while  the  streams 

207 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

of  starry  rockets  died  away  to  a  heartening  glow,  and  the 
glow  to  such  a  soothing  play  of  red  embers  as  sends  a  man 
to  sleep  with  pleasant  thoughts.  It  seemed  to  him  as  he 
lay  in  his  windmill,  looking  out  through  the  unguarded 
door,  that  he  was  in  the  thick  of  a  great  and  friendly  host, 
whether  of  men  or  spirits  was  small  matter.  The  fancy 
served  to  cheer  him,  if  cheering  he  needed,  on  his  enter- 
prise; and  he  fell  asleep  before  the  red  had  all  vanished, 
at  peace  with  himself  and  the  world. 


208 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

VISITORS  AT  THE  MAS 

IN  the  morning,  while  Trillon  was  still  surveying  with 
triumph  the  clearance  that  he  had  made  in  the  bush,  and 
wondering  why  his  small  army  did  not  return,  he  was 
astonished  and  rather  pleased  by  the  advent  of  the  village 
guard  along  the  road  by  which  all  things  came  to  him. 
It  seemed  to  presage  battle,  and  Trillon  was  always 
ready  for  a  skirmish  of  any  sort.  He  gladly  put  aside  all 
thought  of  the  work  that  he  had  not  begun. 

The  guard  of  Castelar  is  a  tall  personage,  important 
with  the  duty  laid  upon  him  of  keeping  the  peace  in  his 
community.  He  is,  so  to  speak,  a  deputy-gendarme, 
rarely  called  into  service  except  in  times  of  election-rows 
and  disputes  over  land  or  water;  but  upon  such  occasions 
he  wears  the  cap  of  authority  and  acts  as  arbitrator  and 
peacemaker,  when  the  spirit  of  the  Midi  runs  away  with 
his  fellows. 

So  tremendous  was  the  dignity  of  this  approaching 
individual  that  more  than  once  he  stumbled  and  all  but 
fell  on  the  rough  mountain  track. 

Trillon  looked  down  good-humouredly,  Flouro  hugging 

209 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

his  knee,  ready  to  fly  at  a  moment's  notice,  and  make  an 
end  of  dignity,  deputy  and  all. 

"Hoi,"  says  Trillon.  "Good-day.  Drink  coffee  with 
me  this  morning?" 

The  guard  looked  up  with  as  stiff  and  soldierly  an  air 
as  possible:  "Sir,  I  come  on  the  mayor's  business." 

"Eh,  well,  that  won't  prevent  your  drinking  coffee,  I 
take  it."  Trillon  retreated  so  abruptly  that  the  guard 
was  obliged  to  follow  or  lose  him  out  of  earshot. 

It  is  rather  awkward  hurling  speech  after  a  man 
whose  desire  is  not  to  hear  what  you  have  to  say.  The 
guard's  mumblings  did  not  do  him  credit. 

"My  papers?"  said  Trillon,  with  civil  amazement. 
"You  say  you  want  to  see  my  papers?  It's  too  early  in 
the  morning  to  show  papers,  and  as  for  letting  them  go 
out  of  my  hands  —  tell  the  mayor  to  come  himself  if  he 
wants  a  look." 

But  the  guard  found  other  words  on  his  tongue. 

"Right?"  asks  Trillon,  setting  down  the  second  coffee- 
cup  that  he  had  just  produced.  " '  Right  ?'  says  the  man  ? 
I'll  show  you  my  right  if  you  don't  clear  off  my  land  in 
two  minutes."  Yellow  sparks  shot  into  his  eyes. 

The  guard  retreated  a  step,  but  he  unfortunately  per- 
mitted himself  to  laugh  at  the  quality  of  the  land. 

"Laugh  at  me,  do  ye,  neighbour?"  says  Trillon,  ad- 
vancing. "Yes,  it's  my  land  —  it's  my  farm.  Will  you 
do  me  the  honour  to  admit  that  it's  my  farm?" 

The  lank  guard  executed  a  backward  dance  before  the 
thrust  that  he  anticipated. 

"It  may  as  well  be  now,"  says  Trillon,  uttering  his 

210 


VISITORS  AT  THE  MAS 

thought  aloud.  "I  shall  have  to  fight  with  the  com- 
munity sooner  or  later.  Why  not  begin  with  the  most 
dangerous  member?"  He  could  not  control  his  irony 
at  the  relic  of  authority  sidling  away  before  him.  You 
see,  it  was  the  bruit  of  madness  that  daunted  the  deputy- 
gendarme.  With  any  of  the  villagers,  especially  when 
they  had  been  for  a  few  hours  at  the  cafe,  he  might  cope; 
but  with  this  yellow-eyed  stranger  from  the  great  world 
outside,  he  found  it  advisable  to  use  a  certain  amount  of 
caution.  However,  his  instructions,  which  he  trembled  to 
recall,  were,  failing  a  sight  of  the  legal  papers,  to  bring 
Trillon  captive  to  the  H6tel  de  Ville  in  the  Place  du  Conne*- 
table  de  Montferrand,  where  he  might  be  interviewed  by 
the  Corporation  in  a  body.  But  even  as  he  remembered,  he 
was  retreating  still  towards  the  edge  of  the  bank,  and  the 
favourable  moment  for  striking  the  blow  did  not  come. 

"Go  back  to  the  town,"  says  Trillon,  "and  tell  the 
fathers  that  this  farm  is  mine,  and  that  I  will  uphold  my 
right  to  it  against  any  of  them  singly  and  in  succession; 
but  for  the  honour  of  Provence,  which  is  theirs  as  well  as 
mine,  I  would  fight  them  all  together.  For  their  own 
credit,  however,  that  will  not  do.  Go." 

But  the  ignominy  of  the  message  stirred  the  guard  from 
his  ague.  Lowering  his  head,  something  after  the  fashion 
of  Lou  Bramaire,  when  he  is  much  goaded  in  the  arena 
at  Aries,  he  rushed  blindly  at  the  desired  captive.  He 
was  a  strong  man,  and  if  he  came  on  like  a  bull,  Trillon 
met  him  like  another;  and  for  a  few  moments  they  swayed 
near  the  edge  of  the  bank,  with  locked  horns.  But  the 
issue  was  certain,  for  in  Trillon's  square-built  frame 

211 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

there  was  a  solidity  of  muscle  such  as  the  lanky  guard 
had  had  no  occasion  to  develop  in  his  rare  encounters 
with  the  peaceable  villagers. 

He  regretted  this  when  Trillon  dangled  him  by  the  coat- 
collar  so  that  he  hung  like  a  cat  over  the  bank.  To  be 
sure,  there  was  small  danger,  but  the  indignity  was  in- 
sufferable. He  wriggled  with  violence,  but  to  no  end. 

"Eh,  well,"  says  Trillon,  speaking  the  more  deliber- 
ately, to  cover  a  little  breathlessness,  "are  you  convinced 
that  this  is  my  mas,  and  that  I  have  a  right  to  it  ?  I  shall 
hold  you  there  until  you  are  of  my  mind." 

Being  presently  persuaded  by  some  little  further  ex- 
periment that  Trillon's  staying  powers  were,  to  say  the 
least,  equal  to  his  own,  the  guard  concluded  that  it  was 
more  graceful  to  give  in  early  than  late;  and  indicated  by 
as  much  of  a  nod  as  he  could  compass,  that  this  was  the 
case. 

Then  Trillon  dropped  him  upon  the  pebble-strewn 
rocky  path  below,  where  he  landed  with  some  damage 
to  his  hands  and  knees  and  nose. 

"Tell  the  mayor,"  says  Trillon,  looking  down  upon  him 
still  without  rancour,  "tell  him  that  I  return  you  with 
compliments  and  thanks,  having  no  use  for  your  services. 
God  be  with  you,  and  mend  your  bruises!" 

Thereupon  he  went  back  to  his  windmill,  and  to  cool 
his  blood  sat  down  in  the  shade  and  smoked  a  dozen 
cigarettes  without  stopping. 

It  was  all  very  foolish,  say  you?  But  I  never  for  a 
moment  pretended  that  Trillon  was  a  sensible  man. 

After  a  time,  it  occurred  to  him  that  his  little  army  of 

212 


VISITORS  AT  THE  MAS 

workers  was  slow  to  come.  He  was  beginning  to  wonder 
how  he  should  get  his  wall  built,  and  whether  all  his 
brilliant  schemes  were  to  be  so  suddenly  dashed,  when  a 
single  head  —  the  pudgy  face  of  Jaquelin  —  topped  the 
edge  of  the  bank. 

"Ha,"  says  Trillon.    "What  now?" 

He  was  not  greatly  surprised  to  hear  that  his  yesterday's 
plan  had  been  received  with  such  strong  disfavour  on  the 
part  of  the  men  of  the  village  that  his  young  army  had 
been  scattered  to  the  wind  on  various  duties,  and,  in  part, 
to  school;  and  that  Jaquelin,  alone,  having  rebelled 
because  the  memory  of  the  franc  was  still  sweet,  had  been 
able  to  come  by  escaping  through  the  rotten  roof  of  a  shed 
where  he  had  been  deposited  for  safe-keeping.  Besides, 
his  parents  had  the  reputation  of  money-grubbers  in  the 
village. 

Trillon  reflected  a  little  during  the  breathless  tale.  It 
was  clear  to  him  that  the  townsmen  were  either  afraid  of 
him  or  hostile  to  such  an  extent  that  coppers,  even  silver 
coins,  had  for  the  time  lost  their  significance.  He  de- 
cided that  in  the  future  he  would  aim  to  be  more  politic. 
Meanwhile,  there  was  Jaquelin,  a  ready,  a  willing  ser- 
vant .  .  .  But  Jaquet  alone  could  not  build  a  wall; 
nor  could  they  two  together  make  much  progress. 

Trillon  pondered,  chin  in  hand;  and  presently  he  found 
the  thing  to  do. 

"Jaquelin,"  he  said,  "can  you  print  letters?" 

And  straightway  Jaquet's  feathers  were  all  a-plume. 
It  would  seem  that  he  was  the  prize- boy  at  the  school  in 
all  such  matters. 

213 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

"Eh,  well,"  says  Trillon,  with  a  bit  of  a  sigh,  "don't 
boast  too  much,  for  you  shall  be  put  to  the  test.  As  for 
myself  I  never  would  learn  a  thing  of  that  sort,  and  some- 
times I  think  it  is  half  a  pity.  However,  that  is  not  to 
the  point  .  .  ." 

He  rose  and  fetched  from  his  storehouse  certain  smooth 
planks  and  a  saw;  also  a  brush  and  a  tin  of  paint,  which, 
when  opened,  proved  to  be  of  a  brilliant  vermilion  that 
won  Jaquet's  soul  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye. 

"Now,"  says  Trillon,  "first  I  shall  saw  the  boards  into 
proper  lengths,  and  then  you  shall  print  on  them  the  words 
that  I  say,  all  spelled  just  as  you  find  them  in  the  books, 
and  when  you  have  done,  you  shall  have  another  silver 
franc  —  hein?" 

They  set  to  work,  the  prospect  of  so  much  wealth  ren- 
dering Jaquelin  a  joyful  slave. 

Trillon  had  soon  finished,  and  while  he  was  looking 
about  for  the  next  thing  to  do,  Fortune,  who  never  seemed 
willing  that  her  favourite  should  work  too  long  at  a  time 
—  Fortune  sent  Peire,  the  quarryman,  strolling  that 
way. 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that  Peire  had  come  on 
community  business.  The  plain  fact  is  that  he  had  for 
some  days  been  debarred  from  work  by  a  bad  throat,  and 
this  morning,  feeling  somewhat  brisker  than  usual,  he 
had  wearied  of  idling  about  his  mother's  house,  and  had 
sauntered  forth,  pipe  in  mouth  —  very  bad  for  his  throat, 
no  doubt  —  in  the  direction  of  the  Pit  of  Artaban.  Cu- 
riosity impelled  him  to  see  what  was  going  on  there;  for, 
indeed,  this  tract  of  desert  land  was  at  the  moment  the 

214 


VISITORS  AT  THE  MAS 

most  interesting  spot  within  many  miles  of  Castelar. 
And  so  he  was  lured  into  the  toils  of  misfortune. 

Nearer  he  advanced  and  nearer,  seeing  nothing,  hearing 
nothing  of  the  reputed  madman.  And  when  at  length 
he  climbed,  not  without  caution,  up  the  bank,  he  per- 
ceived a  small  boy  in  a  smock,  kneeling  with  his  back 
turned,  doing  something  on  the  ground;  and  on  each 
side  of  him  Trillon  and  the  dog,  both  so  absorbed  in 
watching  that  they  did  not  perceive  the  approach  of  the 
invader.  And  so  Peire  came  and  looked  too,  and  what 
he  saw  so  greatly  astonished  him  that  he  could  not  forbear 
a  loud  Hoi. 

Trillon  turned  on  his  heel,  and  Flouro  began  a  sharp 
barking  about  the  quarryman's  trousers. 

"  MAS  ARTABAN,"  read  Peire  slowly. 

"Do  you  not  comprehend?"  asked  Trillon  civilly. 
He  bore  no  grudge  against  Peire,  though  if  he  had  known 
of  certain  passages  of  more  than  friendly  interest  between 
the  quarryman,  not  so  long  before,  and  a  pretty  young 
woman  .  .  . 

Peire  looked  at  him,  looked  down  again,  and  pipe  in 
hand,  continued  reading:  NO  ADMISSION  WITHOUT 
AUTHORIZATION;  WARE  THE  DOG;  THE 
STABLES;  THE  BAKE-HOUSE;  THE  FORGE; 
THE  CART-SHED;  THE  GRANARY;  THE  PIG- 
EON-HOUSE;—  this  was  as  far  as  Jaquelin  had  pro- 
gressed. The  wet  boards,  looking  as  if  they  had  been 
marked  in  blood,  lay  spread  about  him  in  every  direction. 

"Thunder-of-the-Air!"  exclaimed  the  quarryman. 
"What  does  it  all  mean?" 

215 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

"It  means,"  said  Trillon  very  slowly,  "that  I  wish  to 
leave  no  doubt  in  the  mind  of  Castelar  that  this  ground 
you  stand  upon  is  a  farm,  and  that  I  am  a  farmer  —  even 
though  my  vineyards  be  not  yet  planted,  and  though  it  is 
not  possible  to  set  out  olives  or  almonds  until  the  winter- 
time. Have  you  any  doubt  in  the  matter?" 

Seeing  that  Peire  still  looked  at  him  as  if  his  meaning 
were  obscure,  he  asked  again:  "Have  you  seen  the  guard 
this  morning?" 

No,  Peire  was  able  to  say  that  he  had  not. 

"Eh,  well,  I  have  convinced  him,"  said  Trillon.  "If 
you  still  feel  any  doubt  in  your  mind  that  this  is  a  farm 
and  that  I  am  its  owner,  go  talk  to  the  guard  and  you  may 
be  persuaded  without  more  trouble  —  hein?" 

Peire  stared  unwinking  for  a  while;  then  glancing  at 
his  pipe,  which  had  gone  out,  said  amiably:  "Have  you 
a  match?" 

Trillon  laughed,  and  the  yellow  sparks  went  out  of  his 
eyes.  He  produced  the  desired  bit  of  wood,  saying: 
"Come,  I  like  you.  We  may  as  well  settle  the  matter 
now.  You're  a  big  fellow  and  worth  fighting." 

"Heavens!"  said  Peire  peaceably.  "I  don't  want  to 
fight  you  or  any  man.  And  as  for  this  patch  of  rock 
you  may  call  it  a  farm  or  you  may  call  it  a  ship  — 
all's  one  to  me.  And  if  it  pleases  you  to  be  considered  a 
farmer  —  eh,  well,  I  don't  dispute.  In  Castelar  they  say 
you're  a  madman." 

"Hah!"  says  Trillon.  "Indeed?"  And  at  his  voice 
Jaquelin  looked  up  from  his  painting,  showing  a  face 
most  horribly  streaked  with  artificial  gore.  And  as  he 

216 


VISITORS  AT  THE  MAS 

looked,  he  thought  it  wiser  to  lay  aside  his  paint-brush 
for  the  moment  and  to  scramble  to  the  top  of  a  big  boulder, 
whence  he  could  enjoy  the  probable  scrap  without  danger 
to  himself. 

Trillon  controlled  himself,  however,  and  pointing  to 
his  wall  said:  "What  call  you  that?" 

"The  devil"  —  began  Peire,  but  was  checked. 

"Is  it  or  is  it  not  a  wall?" 

At  this  point  Peire  could  not  control  a  roar  of  laughter, 
to  which  the  monkey  face  of  Jaquelin  contributed  not  a 
little. 

Trillon  waited  until  this  mirth  should  be  concluded. 
"Eh,  well?"  he  said  at  last,  almost  gentle. 

"Eh,  well?"  Peire  stood  up  to  him,  with  surprising 
squareness. 

"Is  it  a  farm?"  persisted  Trillon. 

Then  Peire  gave  way  and  laughed  again  cheerfully: 
"To  be  sure,  how  blind  I  am;  and  you  —  now  I  look  at 
your  clothes  —  if  ever  there  was  a  farmer  in  all  Prov- 
ence .  .  ." 

"My  friend,"  says  Trillon,  very  solemnly,  "you  are  a 
wise  man;  but  I  am  almost  sorry  we  have  missed  the 
fight  .  .  ." 

"If  that's  troubling  you,"  said  Peire,  and  began  to 
stuff  his  pipe,  hot  ashes  and  all,  into  his  pocket. 

But  Trillon  protested:  "Let  me  finish.  I  have  learned 
after  some  thinking  that  in  this  world  things  are  very 
largely  what  we  call  them.  Jaquelin,  you  hear  plainly 
that  there  is  at  least  one  man  from  Castelar,  besides  the 
guard,  who  is  convinced.  We  shall  soon  have  the  town 

217 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

—  including  the  priest  —  of  our  opinion.    Now  go  on 
with  your  painting,  boy,  or  you  see  no  silver  of  mine." 

Peire  returned  to  his  pipe  with  some  anticipation  of  the 
good  story  he  would  have  to  tell  at  the  cafe",  on  the  follow- 
ing Saturday  night.  He  was  minded  to  carry  the  joke  a 
little  further. 

"Yes,"  said  he,  "I  cannot  see  that  your  farm  lacks 
anything  but  a  mistress." 

"And  she,"  said  Trillon,  "will  soon  be  on  the  way." 

The  quarryman  looked  at  him,  and  stopped  smoking, 
as  there  crept  into  his  slow  mind  certain  vague  rumours  . . . 

He  could  not  speak,  but  Trillon  was  not  loth  to  tell: 
"Yes,  it's  Madeloun  Borel  .  .  ." 

Peire  knocked  the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe:  "I  think  we'll 
have  that  fight  after  all,  although  for  a  man  with  a  bad 
throat  .  .  ." 

"So  you  have  something  to  say  about  her?"  said 
Trillon.  "Eh,  well,  she  seems  to  have  been  more  of  a 
flirt  than  I  thought.  I  will  fight  you  with  pleasure,  but 
not  with  a  bad  throat  ..." 

If  Peire  appreciated  this  favour,  he  gave  no  sign,  merely 
putting  himself  on  his  defence  with  a  sharp  "Come  on." 

But  Trillon  shook  his  head:  "Not  to-day  —  another 
time.  Look,  now,  there  are  other  ways.  The  girl  is 
mine,  as  I'll  show  you.  Shall  we  throw  dice  for  her?" 

Peire  was  amazed  out  of  his  attitude:  "What?  You 
would  risk  it  all  on  a  chance?" 

''I  always  risk,"  said  Trillon.  "I  merely  desire  to 
convince  you;  and  fighting  is  out  of  the  question  to-day. 
Got  any  dice?  I  have.  Very  good,  we'll  use  yours" — as 

218 


VISITORS  AT  THE  MAS 

they  were  wonderingly  produced  —  "then  you  will  know 
that  I  play  fair.  Now,  shall  I  show  you  my  luck?  You 
take  the  risk?" 

Peire  considered  a  moment,  then  shook  his  head. 
"No,"  said  he,  "the  girl  is  out  of  the  question  now,  but 
if  she  ever  comes  back,  I  want  my  chance  with  the 
others  .  .  ." 

Trillon  looked  so  disappointed  that  it  was  clear  he  was 
ready  to  fling  his  whole  future  down  with  the  dice. 

Said  Peire:  "But  I  have  a  curiosity,  none  the  less,  to 
try  your  luck.  Come,  I'll  throw  with  you  for  a  franc  . . ." 

Instantly  Trillon  picked  up  one  of  the  boards  as  yet 
unpainted,  and  laid  his  stake  upon  it,  signifying  that 
Peire  should  begin;  and  when  the  latter  read  eleven,  he 
promptly  capped  it  with  a  twelve. 

"Again,"  said  Peire,  flushing  a  little,  as  he  handed 
over  his  franc;  and  when  Trillon  flung  a  four,  he  was 
ready  to  triumph  until  he  perceived  that  his  own  sum 
was  a  two.  This  time  the  stakes  were  doubled. 

So  young  Jaque  painted,  while  the  farmer  and  the 
quarryman  were  at  dice;  and  this  state  of  affairs  continued 
until  the  clock  on  the  H6tel  de  Ville  had  struck  twelve, 
and  again,  after  its  fashion,  repeated  the  strokes.  The 
second  time,  Peire  flung  down  the  board  so  that  the  heap 
of  coins  was  scattered  among  the  stones  and  some  were 
smeared  with  red  paint. 

"Are  you  the  devil?"  he  asked,  getting  shakily  to  his 
feet. 

"No,"  says  Trillon,  summoning  Jaquelin  to  come  and 
collect  the  coins,  "but  I  am  a  richer  man  than  when  we 

219 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

began  this  morning.  I  warned  you  of  my  luck.  Are  you 
going  home?" 

Peire  looked  at  him  very  bitterly:  "I  have  no  more 
money  until  I  go  to  work  and  earn  it.  I  shall  pay  you 
out  for  this." 

"Very  good,"  says  Trillon  cheerfully.  "When  you 
can.  Every  man  has  his  time.  But  take  back  your 
money  if  you  like.  I  don't  want  it." 

Peire  turned  and  might  have  stooped,  but  he  could  not 
meet  the  mockery  in  his  opponent's  eyes. 

He  thrust  his  hands  into  his  pockets  and  turned  to 
descend  the  bank.  "No,"  says  he,  "that's  yours.  But 
I'll  get  even  with  you  another  way." 

"Got  it  all?"  said  Trillon  as  Jaquelin  handed  him  the 
little  heap.  "Now  you  shall  have  fair  proportion.  We 
seem  to  be  making  friends  rapidly  in  Castelar.  I  wonder 
who  will  be  our  next  visitor?" 


220 


CHAPTER  XXV 

DISCOVERY 

IT  was  perhaps  some  ten  days  before  any  one  of 
note  in  the  village  troubled  himself  —  or  ventured  —  to 
make  personal  investigation  into  the  progress  of  the  new 
mas.  It  was  not  that  Castelar  had  ceased  to  be  inter- 
ested; indeed,  it  caught  with  almost  scandalous  greed  at 
any  scrap  of  news  that  came  its  way.  But,  although  ru- 
mours were  few  and  unsatisfactory,  people  were  afraid  to  go 
as  far  as  the  Pit  after  the  adventure  of  Peire  and  the  guard, 
neither  of  whom  had  told  the  whole  truth  or  the  exact 
truth  as  to  what  he  had  encountered  there.  The  mayor, 
indeed,  felt  that  he  ought  to  take  the  matter  in  hand,  but 
to  defer  the  evil  moment  gave  out  that  he  was  much  occu- 
pied with  late  hay-making. 

In  the  end,  it  was  Father  Gougoulin  who  made  dis- 
covery, and  that  by  accident.  He  had  been  perhaps  too 
contemptuous  of  the  madman.  However,  when  on  the 
morning  of  a  Saint's  day,  he  found  his  chief  acolyte  miss- 
ing, and  had  to  manage  with  the  younger  and  more  stupid 
ministrant  alone,  and  was  thereby  humiliated  even  in  an 
empty  church,  he  found  it  time  to  take  measures.  Upon 

221 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

investigation  it  proved  that  Jaquelin  had  been  diverted 
from  his  normal  course  of  life  by  this  devil  of  a  Trillon, 
and  was  being  led  into  —  the  village  knew  not  what.  He 
spoke  more  than  one  sharp  word  to  the  parents,  who  were 
poor  enough  (the  father  incalculably  lazy)  because  they 
had  allowed  their  child  to  imperil  his  soul  for  the  sake 
of  a  few  bits  of  silver.  And  when  he  wrung  from  them, 
unwilling,  the  fact  that  Jaque  was  that  very  day  on  duty 
at  the  Pit  of  Artaban,  all  in  a  fire  of  indignation  he  re- 
solved to  undertake  the  fatigue  of  the  walk  and  confront 
the  fellow  to  his  face.  But  he  made  no  attempt  until  he 
had  been  strengthened  by  a  midday  meal  and  a  nap. 

He  moved  slowly,  and  with  an  accumulating  fund  of 
remarks;  and  ascended  above  the  bank  with  the  rubicund 
dignity  of  the  sun  himself.  It  was  a  pity  that  this  im- 
pressive entrance  was  lost  to  all  the  world  except  the 
yellow  Flouro,  who  came  bounding  over  the  loose  wall 
and  received  the  visitor  with  a  shower  of  barks  and  futile 
clutches  at  the  priestly  robe. 

Defending  himself  as  well  as  he  could  with  his  stick, 
Father  Gougoulin  shouted  in  a  voice  that  would  have 
exorcised  devils:  "Call  off  your  brute!"  And  at  that, 
Jaquelin  came  running  from  the  windmill,  and  upon 
seeing  his  reverend  father  in  God,  remembered  that  it 
was  a  Saint's  day,  and  visibly  crumpled  up  into  a  shape- 
less moral  heap. 

"Where  is  your  master?"  demanded  the  priest,  step- 
ping with  the  air  of  one  who  would  not  yield  an  inch,  over 
a  low  place  in  the  wall. 

And  Jaque  was  so  abashed  that  he  could  not  answer. 

222 


DISCOVERY 

"Is  he  here?"  asked  Father  Gougoulin,  perceiving  the 
boy's  state  of  mind. 

Jaque  found  courage  to  shake  his  head. 

Then  the  priest  looked  about  him,  at  the  surface  of  the 
plateau,  half  bare  of  stones,  and  scarred  where  the  furze 
and  other  rank  growth  had  been  cleared  away.  From 
the  standpoint  of  beauty,  the  state  of  nature  was  doubt- 
fully improved;  and  regarded  as  a  farm,  the  place  could 
not  yet  be  called  as  an  unqualified  success. 

He  grew  suddenly  aware  that  he  was  looking  at  a  sign- 
post rather  like  a  wayside  cross,  and  began  to  laugh. 
"What  is  the  meaning  of  this?"  he  demanded,  pointing 
to  the  word  BAKE-HOUSE.  Without  giving  the  boy 
time  to  answer,  he,  forgetting  his  priestly  dignity,  and  with 
his  plump  hands  tucked  into  his  sash,  broke  into  bubbles 
of  laughter  worthy  almost  of  a  good  man,  as  he  read  aloud 
the  gory  labels  to  non-existent  portions  of  the  mas. 

"Call  a  cat  a  tiger,"  said  he,  "and  you  can  scare  a 
village;  but  WARE  THE  DOG— that's  no  bad  advice. 
Let  us  look  further  into  the  matter." 

He  appreciated  for  a  time  the  disadvantages  of  not 
keeping  more  in  touch  with  one's  parishioners.  However, 
he  had  his  laugh  out. 

In  the  end,  the  echo  of  his  own  voice  among  the  upper 
rocks  sobered  him  a  little;  he  turned  to  Jaque  again: 
"You  are  sure  he  is  not  here?" 

"He  has  gone  away  with  his  mule,  father,"  said  the 
boy  timidly,  "and  he  will  come  back  to-morrow  morning." 

Then  the  priest  turned  to  have  a  look  about.  For  the 
moment,  curiosity  was  his  strongest  emotion.  He  strode 

223 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

up  to  the  open  door  of  the  windmill  —  for  by  this  time 
Trillon  had  fashioned  a  primitive  board  screen  which 
would  keep  out  autumn  chill  and  straying  creatures,  and 
he  looked  within  at  the  ship-shape  packing  of  the  house- 
hold belongings.  Trillon  had  not  been  at  sea  in  vain. 
Then  the  old  man  went  further,  Jaque  trailing  a  little  way 
off  at  his  heels,  and  gazed  down  into  the  ancient  Pit,  the 
nearer  segment  of  which  was  transformed  by  means  of 
poles  and  worn-out  fish-nets,  probably  bought  at  some 
junkshop  in  Marseilles,  into  a  barnyard.  He  counted 
two  cocks  and  nine  hens  —  no  small  crew. 

"How  many  eggs  a  day?"  he  leered  at  Jaque;  but  the 
boy  only  gaped. 

Then  first  the  ecclesiastical  eye  took  in  the  full  signifi- 
cance of  the  wall  that  straggled  up  the  hillside  as  far  as 
the  quarry.  To  be  sure,  it  was  uneven  and  crooked, 
crumbling  here  and  there,  and  occasionally  had  toppled 
over;  but  taken  in  a  large  way,  as  a  whole,  it  was  such  a 
wall  —  at  least,  an  approach  to  such  a  wall  —  as  encloses 
hundreds  of  little  Provencal  farms. 

The  priest  followed  its  course,  then  laughed  again  at 
the  desolate  ground  that  it  set  apart.  "Anything  grow- 
ing, my  child?"  he  asked  the  boy  genially. 

"We  shall  plant  in  the  autumn,  father,"  answered 
Jaque,  identifying  himself  with  his  master. 

Then  the  priest  remembered  the  morning's  defection: 
"Oho!  and  what  were  you  doing  that  you  came  not  to 
Mass  this  morning?" 

"I  forgot"  —  the  culprit  hung  his  head. 

"  Indeed,  you  forgot  ?  But  what  were  you  doing  here  ?  " 

224 


DISCOVERY 

"He  told  me  to  mend  the  wall  as  much  as  I  could,  and 
to  feed  the  fowls,  and  to  take  care  of  the  things  ..." 

"And  he  is  gone  —  where?"  asked  the  priest  sharply. 

"I  do  not  know—" 

Father  Gougoulin  held  up  a  warning  forefinger. 

"Indeed,  he  did  not  tell  me,"  said  Jaque,  with  obvious 
sincerity. 

"And  to-night?    What  happens  to-night?" 

Jaque  looked  frightened. 

"What  will  you  do  to-night?"  Father  Gougoulin 
pressed  the  question  home. 

"He  will  come  back  early  in  the  morning." 

"And  you  will  be  alone  here  all  the  night?" 

Jaque  looked  more  frightened. 

"Answer  me  —  tell  me  the  truth!"  There  was  no 
resisting  that  command. 

"No,"  said  Jaque,  "my  father  is  coming." 

Ah,  the  secret  was  out  now !  Corrupting  the  community, 
was  he,  to  his  own  ends?  The  young  man  needed  a 
lesson,  it  was  clear.  But  what  mad  work  was  he  about 
now?  Father  Gougoulin  would  like  to  get  that  out  of 
the  faithless  acolyte. 

"And  how  much  money  are  you  to  have  for  this  per- 
formance?" he  asked. 

Jaque  looked  troubled.  He  could  not  see  where  the 
heinous  sin  came  in,  except,  of  course,  that  he  had  for- 
gotten Mass  that  morning.  He  answered  beseechingly: 
"  Five  francs,  father.  And  we  are  poor,  you  know.  And 
we  have  only  to  keep  up  the  fire  and  —  and  such 
things." 

225 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

"Hm,"  said  the  priest,  "now  tell  me  all  that  you  know 
of  your  master's  doings  and  goings." 

Here  was  an  authority  to  be  obeyed.  Jaque  dared 
not  refuse,  but  he  was  rather  worried  by  the  situation, 
none  the  less. 

"He  harnessed  the  mule  to  the  cart  early  this  morning, 
and  he  took  some  food  with  him,  and  he  said  he  would 
be  gone  all  the  day,  and  would  come  back  some  time  in 
the  night  .  .  ." 

"Why  in  the  night?"  asked  Father  Gougoulin;  but 
Jaque  did  not  know  that. 

"And  then  — what  else?" 

But  Jaque's  memory  seemed  to  be  exhausted. 

"Think  —  think,"  said  his  ghostly  father,  "and  I  will 
make  the  penance  light  for  your  sin  this  morning." 

Jaque  thought  long,  then  got  out:  "I  believe  he  said 
he  was  going  to  market." 

"To  market?"  said  the  priest.  "Aha!"  But  after  all 
this  was  not  impossible  —  or  even  unreasonable. 

"Well — well?"    Impatience  grew  upon  him. 

"But  whether  it  was  Cavaioun  or  Carpentras,  I  cannot 
remember,"  said  the  boy  stubbornly. 

A  less  astute  man  than  Gougoulin  might  have  perceived 
prevarication  there. 

"But  it  is  not  market-day  at  either  of  those  towns,  as  I 
happen  to  know,"  said  the  priest  coolly.  "Was  it  by  any 
chance  Fontvieille?" 

When  Jaquelin  flushed  red  and  clearly  did  not  know 
how  to  answer,  he  judged  that  his  guess  was  right ;  and  it 
gave  him  the  clue  that  he  required.  He  sat  down  upon  a 

226 


DISCOVERY 

boulder,  a  fat  hand  on  each  knee,  and  meditated  a  while, 
Jaque  watching  him  apprehensively  from  a  distance. 

"So,"  said  he  to  himself,  when  he  rose  to  depart,  "so 
and  so  —  and  so !  It  is  probable  that  the  young  man  has 
been  planning  a  coup  d'etat.  But  since  there  is  a  tele- 
graph at  Mausanne,  we  may  thwart  him  yet.  To  send  a 
message  by  the  postman  —  a  word  to  the  Mother  Superior 
—  that  will  be  easy  enough  and  can  do  no  harm.  If  his 
errand  is  innocent,  he  will  not  know;  but  if  he  is  attempt- 
ing mischief  —  well,  well,  I  should  like  to  be  here  when 
he  returns.  So!  And  now  I  think  we  have  provided 
against  possible  contingencies." 

In  the  very  act  of  getting  over  the  wall,  he  turned:  "Tell 
your  master  from  me  —  when  he  comes  home  —  that  I 
wish  to  see  him  at  the  presbytery  as  soon  as  possible. 
And  as  for  your  penance,  we  shall  see  about  that  when 
you  come  to  confession." 

Then  in  high  good-humour,  he  trotted  back  briskly  to 
send  his  telegram  before  the  postman  got  away  on  the 
return  journey.  It  was  as  well  to  allow  the  Mother 
Superior  plenty  of  time. 

"The  young  devil!"  he  chuckled  over  Trillon;  and  he 
confessed  to  a  fellow-feeling  for  him  in  his  prank.  But 
none  the  less  he  held  fast  to  his  purpose. 


227 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

THE  END  OF  THE  LONG  WHITE  ROAD 

SHE  was  so  sure  of  her  hope,  the  little  Madeloun  —  so 
very  sure  of  her  man  —  that  she  gave  no  thought  for  the 
end  of  her  novitiate,  beyond  now  and  again  when  her 
cheeks  burned  hot  at  her  seeming  acquiescence,  or  paled 
with  a  passing  fear  that  she  might  have  to  go  through 
with  it  after  all. 

Even  when  the  day  was  appointed  for  her  to  take  the  veil, 
and  had  come  within  imaginable  distance,  within  the  meas- 
ure of  some  weeks,  she  lived  still  in  her  dreams  and  dwelt 
ever  upon  the  details  how  the  thing  would  be  accomplished. 
She  made  no  plans  in  case  he  failed  her.  It  never  entered  her 
head  that  he  would  not  come;  and  yet  if  she  had  known  him 
better  she  might  have  felt  the  grave  peril  of  the  situation. 

On  a  day,  late  in  the  afternoon,  she  knelt  hi  the  church, 
not  praying  —  I  must  confess  that  she  was  not  praying  — 
nor  even  contemplating  the  beauty  of  the  Holy  Life.  She 
was  in  the  chapel  because  it  gave  her  an  excuse  to  be  alone 
with  her  thoughts. 

To  her  came  Sister  Marto  with  a  certain  flutter  in  her 
kind  face. 

228 


THE  END  OF  THE  LONG  WHITE  ROAD 

"The  Mother  sent  me  to  you,"  she  said.  "You  are  to 
go  to  your  room  and  stay  there  awhile.  This  is  a  solemn 
time  for  you,  Madaleno." 

The  girl  looked  at  her  shrewdly,  questioningly: 
"Sister  Marto,  what  have  I  done  now?  Have  I  not 
obeyed  —  ?" 

"Obey  now,  then,  without  question,"  said  the  nun,  yet 
could  not  keep  the  pity  out  of  her  gentle  voice. 

"But  something  has  happened,  Sister,"  pleaded  Made- 
loun.  "I  can  see  it  in  your  eyes,  hear  it  when  you 
speak." 

"I  know  nothing,"  murmured  Sister  Marto,  turning 
away  in  confusion. 

But  the  girl  seized  her  two  hands  and  studied  her  averted 
face. 

"If  ever  you  were  kind  to  me,  Sister,  be  kind  now!" 

The  nun  returned  the  look  of  appeal  with  sympathy: 
"Child,  child,  I  can  only  tell  you  to  go  pray.  Now,  that 
you  are  so  far  on  the  road  ..." 

Madeloun  shut  her  lips  and  moved  away:  "I  must  help 
myself,  I  see." 

"What  would  you  do,  O  Madeloun?"  cried  the  nun, 
hastening  after  her.  "Look,  now,  I  know  nothing,  but 
the  Mother  has  just  had  a  telegram.  I  do  not  know  what 
was  in  it.  Perhaps  it  had  nothing  to  do  with  you  ..." 

Madeloun  stopped  short  in  her  walk  and  considered. 
She  knew  what  a  telegram  was.  She  had  even  seen  such 
a  thing.  It  was  an  expensive  way  people  had  of  sending 
a  message  quickly.  She  had  so  much  food  for  thought 
that  she  went  quite  peaceably,  almost  as  if  unconsciously, 

229 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

to  her  little  room  where  the  last  rays  of  the  sun  pierced 
the  plane-tree  dimly  and  sent  a  faint  shimmer  upon  the 
stone  floor. 

"I  am  sorry,  Madaleno,"  said  the  nun  faltering,  "but 
the  Mother  said  I  must  lock  you  in  and  bring  her  the 
kev  " 

I\A_->        •       *       • 

She  stopped,  amazed  at  the  sudden  blaze  of  light  from 
the  girl's  eyes.  But  Madeloun  caught  herself  in  what 
she  was  about  to  say;  and  turned  her  back.  It  would  not 
do  for  even  Sister  Marto  to  know  how  she  had  poured  oil 
on  the  fire  of  hope. 

"Very  well,"  she  said  quietly.  "To  be  sure,  I  have  no 
understanding  why  ..." 

"Have  you  not,  Madeloun?  Have  you  not,  indeed?" 
asked  the  nun. 

"It  is  you  who  have  seen  the  telegram  —  "  Madeloun 
shrugged.  "What  I  have  done  to  deserve  it  is  best  known 
to  the  Mother." 

"You  could  trust  me,  child,"  said  the  nun  piteously. 

"Could  I?"  asked  Madeloun.  "But  your  conscience 
would  make  you  go  tell.  However,  there  is  nothing  to 
say,  only"  —  she  could  not  control  a  sudden  leap  of  joy 
into  her  face  —  "only  I  think  somehow  I  shall  be  saved 
to-night.  I  know  no  more  than  you." 

"Are  you  honest,  Madeloun?" 

"Eh,  well,"  says  Madeloun,  "he  told  me  so,  and  — 
now  I  am  honest." 

"Told  you  ?  You  have  seen  him ?"  asked  Sister  Marto, 
with  a  sort  of  fear. 

The  girl  hesitated,  then  admitted  it:  "Once.  He  found 

230 


THE  END  OF  THE  LONG  WHITE  ROAD 

a  way.  He  will  find  it  again.  I  have  no  fear.  Go  and 
tell  the  Mother  if  you  like." 

"I  shall  not  do  that,"  said  Sister  Marto,  after  a  pause. 
"And  wherever  you  are  —  O  my  child,  be  not  rash!  —  I 
shall  always  pray  for  you  —  always  — " 

Her  voice  wavered  and  broke;  she  leaned  a  moment 
towards  Madeloun,  kissed  her  on  the  forehead,  and  went 
quickly  out.  The  prisoner  heard  the  key  turn  in  the  lock. 

Madeloun  sat  down  on  her  bed  and  clasped  her  knees, 
shivering  in  a  very  ecstasy  of  waiting.  How  long?  It 
would  not  be  before  dark,  she  was  sure.  And  if  the 
Mother  was  warned  .  .  .  Well,  she  might  find  her  match. 
.  .  .  She  might  lock  the  door,  but  there  was  always  the 
window  .  .  .  Once  before  by  the  window  .  .  . 

She  looked  up  with  a  shock  about  the  heart,  as  she 
realized  a  sudden  presence  there.  The  big  brown  face 
of  Zefir,  the  hound,  looked  in  upon  her  inquiringly. 
Then  he  moved  across  the  window  and  there  was  the  rattle 
of  a  chain.  Clearly  it  was  intended  that  he  should  give 
warning  if  any  stranger  came  that  way.  A  moment 
Madeloun  was  daunted,  then  her  spirit  rose  with  indig- 
nation. "In  the  face  of  all  of  them,"  she  said,  and  began 
to  put  together  a  little  bundle  of  such  clothes  as  she  could 
lay  hands  upon.  Her  habit  she  could  not  change,  for  she 
had  no  other  dress;  but  she  laid  aside  the  collar  and  coif 
and  put  her  hair  up  under  a  handkerchief. 

O  the  long,  long  hours!  She  had  had  no  supper,  by 
order  undoubtedly;  and  she  began,  for  all  her  ardours,  to 
be  very  hungry.  Zefir  slept  at  times;  but  now  and  again 
turned  restlessly,  unused  to  a  chain,  sighed  and  yawned. 

231 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

Two  or  three  times  he  lifted  his  head  and  listened,  and 
then  Madeloun  climbed  upon  her  chair  and  stood  tip-toe 
to  stroke  him,  but  could  not  reach. 

She  got  down  again,  and  in  her  impatience  dropped 
before  the  crucifix  and  prayed  violently  all  the  prayers 
she  knew. 

And  when  she  had  come  quite  to  the  end,  she  made  a 
great  and  sudden  resolve,  that  she  would  try  as  best  she 
could  to  get  out  of  the  window  herself,  and  out  of  the 
garden  and  into  the  road,  and  if  he  did  not  come,  to  save 
herself  as  she  might.  Whether  she  would  walk  to  Castelar 
or  not,  was  wholly  undetermined  in  her  mind. 

She  began  to  look  about  for  means  of  escape.  She 
could  find  nothing  but  the  washing-stand;  but  when  she 
had  moved  this,  cautious  of  noise,  and  had  climbed  upon 
it  by  means  of  a  chair,  she  could  most  easily  crawl  through 
the  high  window.  She  laughed  to  think  how  the  Mother 
Superior  had  missed  her  calculation.  To  be  sure,  if  they 
had  been  of  the  same  fatness  .  .  . 

Zefir  yapped  at  her  a  little,  but  soon  licked  her  hand, 
when  she  tugged  to  free  him  from  his  chain;  and  the 
moment  he  was  released,  padded  along  the  terrace  to  the 
steps  that  led  down  to  the  lower  hall,  and  so  to  the  kitchen. 
If  the  kitchen  door  were  open,  as  might  be,  he  would 
doubtless  be  found  in  the  morning  on  the  hearth-rug  in 
his  usual  place.  If  not  —  but  Madeloun  was  minded  to 
have  no  doubt.  She  slipped  off  her  shoes  and  followed 
the  hound  like  a  shadow  to  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  where 
she  sped  a  little  prayer  that  she  had  done  so,  for  the  kitchen 
door  was  closed  and  the  hound  lay  outside.  She  opened 

232 


THE  END  OF  THE  LONG  WHITE  ROAD 

it  and  shut  in  the  guard,  who  was  only  too  glad  to  get  out 
of  the  unaccustomed  business  of  watching. 

Then  Madeloun  returned  to  the  terrace  and  sat  down 
on  the  balustrade  under  the  plane-tree.  She  waited  so 
long  that  she  shivered  in  the  night  air;  and  when  the  church 
clock  began  to  strike,  she  was  amazed  to  find  that  it  was 
only  ten.  It  is  a  pitiful  thing  to  wait  over-long  the  coming 
of  love! 

Madeloun  fell  presently  into  a  sort  of  daze,  telling 
herself  dreamily  that  she  must  be  thinking  of  flight,  yet 
unable  to  move  a  limb.  She  was  stirred  at  length  by  the 
shaking  of  the  plane-tree  that  shadowed  her.  Some  large 
bird,  an  owl,  perhaps  .  .  . 

She  pressed  down  her  beating  heart  and  listened. 

The  fluttering  and  rustling,  nay,  even  creaking,  went 
on.  It  must  be  a  great  bird  —  a  very  great  bird.  .  .  Ah, 
but  what  bird  ever  hummed  low,  "O  Magali,  ma  tant 
amado"? 

Close  among  the  branches  was  the  song,  but  it  came 
nearer  and  nearer;  and  she  leaned  over  the  parapet  ready 
for  the  arms  that  should  be  outstretched  and  the  low 
laugh  of  triumph. 

"Can  you  come  this  way?"  said  he,  flinging  a  hand 
out  from  the  thick  of  the  tree. 

"Any  way,"  said  she  bravely;  and  obeying  his  directions, 
she  knotted  well  about  her  waist  the  sash  that  he  flung 
to  her.  Not  trusting  her  strength,  he  scrambled  nearer 
to  see  that  she  was  bound  fast,  then  retreated  along  the 
branch  so  that  this  might  not  have  to  bear  double  weight, 
and  bade  her  follow.  She  showed  a  neat  agility,  swinging 

233 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

herself  from  bough  to  bough,  whenever  she  slipped  being 
restrained  by  the  sash  which  he  had  twisted  round  the 
big  limb  against  which  he  was  braced.  When  she  reached 
the  lowest  branch  in  safety,  he  sent  her  a  note  of  warning 
to  wait,  climbed  down  to  her  level,  and  there  fixed  himself 
in  the  heart  of  all  the  trunks  together  and  lowered  her 
carefully  to  the  ground. 

He  scarcely  paused  for  an  embrace ;  but  seized  her  hand 
and  began  to  run  swiftly  through  the  garden,  laughing 
under  his  breath,  between  the  roses  and  over  the  grass- 
plots,  groping  along  the  wall  until  he  found  the  rope 
ladder  that  he  had  hung  there. 

Their  further  progress  was  just  perilous  enough  to  be 
exciting,  for  the  rope  ladder  was  inclined  to  swing,  and 
the  top  of  the  wall  save  where  —  I  am  sorry  to  say  — 
Trillon  had  made  a  breach,  was  covered  with  broken 
glass.  But  here  on  the  stones  Madeloun  perched  like  a 
shaky  young  bird,  while  Trillon  drew  up  the  ladder  and 
hung  it  on  the  other  side.  Thence  it  was  easy  work, 
for  he  went  first  and  caught  her  without  misadventure, 
and  in  sheer  exuberance  of  emotion  carried  her  to  the 
spot  where  he  had  fastened  his  charrelte  to  a  tree-stump; 
but  there  he  left  her  to  recover  herself  as  best  she  might, 
while  he  returned  to  swing  off  the  rope-ladder.  He  was 
rather  desirous  of  leaving  it  there  as  an  interesting  lesson 
to  the  Mother  Superior  on  ways  of  escape,  but  for  once 
in  his  life  reason  prevailed. 

When  he  reached  the  equipage,  he  seemed  to  gather 
that  Madeloun  had  some  doubt,  for  he  deliberately  lighted 
a  match,  and  summing  up  her  attitude  with  a  shrewd 

234 


THE  END  OF  THE  LONG  WHITE  ROAD 

glance,  said:  "It's  nothing  great  for  a  bride  —  this. 
However,  we  shall  better  all  that.  I  have  stuffed  some 
sacks  with  grass,  and  there's  a  coat  to  creep  under  .  .  ." 

She  said  nothing,  and  he  changed  his  tone:  "But, 
if  you  repent  .  .  .?" 

"Don't  be  silly,"  she  said,  climbing  up  into  the  char- 
rette;  but  he  chose  to  disregard  her  admonition:  "It's  soon 
mended.  We  have  only  to  ring  the  gate-bell."  He  made 
a  movement  as  if  to  do  so ;  but  she  laid  a  ringer  on  his  arm. 

"Listen,"  he  said,  as  he  covered  the  pleading  hand 
with  his  own,  "I  have  been  rich,  and  I  am  almost  poor 
again.  Two  weeks  ago  I  could  have  filled  your  apron 
with  silver.  It's  all  a  chance  —  you  shall  not  suffer,  I 
swear.  Will  you  take  me  or  not?" 

She  made  no  answer  in  words,  but  nestled  among  the 
bags  full  of  grass  and  drew  the  coat  up  to  her  chin. 

"You  must  answer,"  said  he. 

And  she:  "Why  don't  you  drive  on?" 

With  a  suppressed  whoop,  he  had  the  reins  loose  and 
was  on  the  front  of  the  cart;  and  the  mule  had  begun  to 
trot  along  the  level  road  under  the  blackness  of  the  over- 
arching plane-trees. 

For  some  kilometres  the  two  were  silent,  save  that 
Trillon  whistled  softly  between  his  teeth.  At  length,  he 
bent  backwards  and  flung  an  arm  across  the  girl's  shoulder. 

"Asleep?" 

"No  —  dreaming,"  she  confessed. 

"Of  what?" 

But  that  she  would  not  tell. 

"No  castles,"  said  he.     "Build  no  castles.    We  are 

235 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

poor  now.  But  —  I  shall  soon  change  all  that.  I  have 
an  idea  — " 

The  good  man!  When  had  he  not  an  idea?  or  when 
had  he  one  that  the  world  would  call  practicable? 

They  came  out  now  and  then  from  under  the  trees, 
where  the  road  gleamed  pale  in  the  starlight;  and  jolted 
past  the  white  farmhouses,  where  the  dogs  sometimes 
gave  them  violent  greeting  and  escort  for  a  long  distance, 
and  where  the  farmers  must  have  turned  in  their  beds  and 
wondered  who  was  abroad.  They  talked  but  little:  a  few 
love-words,  a  scrap  of  a  plan,  a  hope,  a  sigh,  a  shiver,  a 
touch  of  fear,  a  protecting  hand  now  and  then  —  that 
was  all. 

And  so  they  began  to  ascend  into  the  mountains,  where 
the  road  became  a  mere  double  rut,  with  boulders  here 
and  there,  and  ridges  of  live  rock  and  shoals  of  pebbles. 

Madeloun,  jolted  into  wakefulness,  sat  up,  aware  that 
the  keen  breath  of  the  morning  was  upon  them. 

"Trillon,"  she  exclaimed  suddenly,  "I  have  left  my 
bundle  of  clothes  at  the  convent." 

"Never  mind,"  said  he,  laughing.  "We  are  both  beg- 
gars then;  but  we  shall  not  stay  so  long."  He  drew  rein 
in  the  pallid  light,  and  she  could  barely  make  out  the 
parting  of  two  ways.  "Leleto,"  he  said,  "the  one  is  for 
Aries,  and  the  wide  world  of  wandering  —  Avignon  per- 
haps —  but  freedom  —  a  merry  life.  The  other  is  for 
Castelar  —  where  we  must  work  to  lift  the  curse.  Which  ? 
Hein?" 

"As  you  will,"  said  she  meekly. 

He  was  gently  obstinate:  "No,  it  is  for  you  to  say. 

236 


THE  END  OF  THE  LONG  WHITE  ROAD 

Shall  we  take  the  chance  or  the  hard  way  ?  Or  —  there 
is  always  the  third  course  —  to  turn  back." 

"Not  turn  back,"  she  said  faintly. 

"And  then?" 

"Home"  —  her  voice  dropped  to  a  whisper. 

Without  a  word,  he  turned  the  mule  along  the  road 
that  led  still  upward.  Far  away,  looking  high  as  a  city 
among  the  clouds,  and  rosy  in  the  dawn-light,  they  could 
see  the  little  town  —  Castelar. 

"What  will  you  do  with  me?"  she  asked  presently. 

"Have  you  faith?"  he  would  know.     "Wait  and  see." 

She  did  not  dream  that  as  he  continued  his  serene 
whistle,  he  was  turning  hot  and  cold  with  the  first  sense 
of  responsibility  that  had  ever  crossed  his  brain.  It  was 
all  very  well  to  knock  about  the  world  and  live  as  one 
could,  but  with  a  girl  on  one's  hands  —  and  the  necessity 
for  a  daily  finding  of  bread  and  cheese  —  it  made  a  man 
think  a  bit.  Only  his  luck  could  help  him  out,  he  decided. 
But  presently  he  put  the  worry  away  from  him,  as  he 
slackened  his  reins  and  the  mule  began  the  ascent  of  the 
cobbled  way  to  the  rosy  city  on  the  heights. 


237 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

THE  DISPOSITION  OF  MADELOUN 

SOON  after  daybreak  there  came  a  long  and  furious 
knocking  at  the  Cabro  $Or.  It  was  not,  you  must  under- 
stand, for  the  purpose  of  effecting  an  entrance,  for  in 
Castelar  nobody  ever  locks  a  door  at  night;  but  only  to 
call  the  inhabitants  to  a  conference. 

When  J6use  stumbled  downstairs,  half  dressed  and  in 
no  amiable  mood,  he  found  a  candle-end  lighted  in  his 
dining-room,  and  by  its  feeble  illumination  perceived  a 
runaway  sister  and  her  cavalier.  It  was  small  wonder 
that  he  sat  down  abruptly  and  said  nothing. 

"Yes,"  said  Trillon,  "you  are  surprised,  no  doubt. 
But  I  warned  you  it  was  not  to  my  mind  that  Madeloun 
should  turn  nun;  nor  to  hers,  for  that  matter." 

Madeloun  seemed  to  shrink  further  into  the  handker- 
chief she  had  knotted  about  her  hair,  as  Jdusfc  stared  at 
her;  but  she  found  no  word  to  say. 

"After  all,"  continued  Trillon,  "it  was  no  great  business 
getting  her  off.  I  had  not  thought  it  would  be  so  easy." 

"But  to  keep  her?"  stammered  Jduse.  "Father  Gou- 
goulin  — ?" 

238 


THE  DISPOSITION  OF  MADELOUN 

Trillon  shrugged:  "I  shall  see  him  this  morning  about 
the  banns.  Meanwhile,  the  girl  must  stay  here.  I 
cannot  take  her  to  — " 

"The  windmill?"  put  in  Jduse,  with  a  smile. 

"We  shall  see  about  that  later,"  said  Trillon  curtly, 
"but  until  she  is  married,  there  is  no  place  so  fit  for  her 
as  her  father's  house." 

"As  to  that,"  said  J6use,  "it  happens  to  be  my  house 
—  not  her  father's.  And  you  anticipate  no  difficulties  in 
the  way  of  obtaining  our  consent?" 

"We  waste  time  talking,"  said  Trillon,  "and  Madeloun 
is  very  tired.  Call  your  wife  and  let  us  get  this  arrange- 
ment concluded." 

"You  have  not  answered  my  question,"  persisted 
Jduse,  stifling  a  yawn. 

Trillon  turned  to  his  sweetheart:  "Look,  Madeloun, 
you'd  better  leave  us.  Go  out  into  the  garden.  This  is 
business  that  we  must  talk  and  no  woman's  affair."  She 
turned  wistful  eyes  upon  him,  but  dared  not  disobey. 
As  she  passed  her  brother,  he  deigned  to  put  out  a  hand 
and  draw  her  towards  him  with  a  negligent  kiss  on  each 
cheek. 

"Since  you  are  foolish  enough  to  be  here,  little  sister," 
said  he,  not  unkindly,  "we  must  do  the  best  we  can 
for  you." 

Trillon  went  after  her  to  make  sure  that  the  door  was 
closed,  then  he  came  back  with  a  proposition.  "And 
now  I  will  answer  your  question.  As  to  consent,  my 
good  brother-in-law-to-be,  that  can  always  be  purchased. 
I  am  prepared  to  pay  — " 

239 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

"Yes,  but  how  much  money  have  you?"  asked  J6use 
rudely. 

"That  is  my  affair,"  answered  Trillon,  "as  long  as  I 
can  meet  all  reasonable  demands  upon  it." 

Jduse  shrugged:  "You  can  talk.  One  cannot  deny 
that  you  talk  always.  But  I  have  yet  to  see  why  I  should 
consent  that  my  sister  be  taken  out  of  the  convent 
where  she  was  placed  in  accordance  with  our  mother's 
wish,  and  where  she  would  have  been  safe  and  well  pro- 
vided for,  in  order  to  marry  a  man  of  whom  —  to  put  it 
as  politely  as  I  can  —  nobody  knows  anything,  and  a 
man  without  fixed  rente  or  apparent  means  of  support." 

This  was  a  tremendous  speech  for  Jduse;  he  panted 
from  the  effects  of  it. 

"The  sole  reason  is,"  said  Trillon,  "that  the  girl  prefers 
the  man  in  question  to  the  convent." 

"The  girl,"  said  J6use  sharply,  "is  too  young  to  know 
her  mind.  It  is  her  elders  who  must  act  for  her." 

"But  if  I  have  Father  Gougoulin's  consent,"  insinuated 
Trillon,  "what  then?" 

"Eh,  well,"  said  Jduse,  "then  it  is  not  my  affair.  I 
have  spoken  my  mind." 

But  Emilto,  unable  longer  to  control  her  curiosity,  had 
clattered  down  the  stairs,  her  dress  half  buttoned,  her 
hair  and  eyes  bearing  marks  of  the  pillow. 

"What  is  this?"  she  asked.     "And  what  is  your  mind?" 

She  addressed  her  husband,  but  it  was  Trillon  who 
answered:  "My  mind  is  that  you  should  receive  Madeloun 
here,  for  a  consideration,  until  she  is  able  to  make  such 
preparations  as  are  needful  for  her  wedding." 

240 


THE  DISPOSITION  OF  MADELOUN 

Then  it  was  Emilio  who  stood  open-mouthed,  and  had 
to  have  full  explanations. 

"  What  will  be  said  in  the  vilkge  ?  "  was  her  comment. 

Trillon  governed  his  impatience:  "Look  you,  it  need 
not  be  known  how  she  got  away  from  the  convent.  That's 
chiefly  why  I  brought  her  here.  Enough  that  she  did  not 
take  kindly  to  the  religious  life.  Let  the  village  talk. 
If  I  arrange  with  the  priest  and  you  say  nothing,  what  can 
be  known?" 

"And  you  propose,"  asked  Emilio  shrewdly,  "to  take 
her  to  that  land  you  have  bought  —  or,  as  they  say,  have 
not  bought?  And  how  do  you  mean  to  live?" 

Trillon's  answer  came  in  the  form  of  two  twenty-franc 
pieces  laid  on  the  table.  "That  is  a  beginning  if  you  keep 
silence,  and  treat  the  girl  kindly,  and  let  her  have  her  way 
until  I  can  settle  her  affairs.  It  is  something,  you  cannot 
deny,  that  I  have  got  her  safely  out  of  the  hands  of  the  nuns." 

But  Jduse  and  Emilio  did  not  regard  this  high-handed 
proceeding  with  obvious  favour.  The  latter  crossed  herself, 
and  the  former  perhaps  to  hide  some  embarrassment,  put 
out  the  guttering  candle,  and  went  to  open  the  street  door 
to  the  morning. 

Without  another  word,  Trillon  strolled  through  the 
other  door  leading  into  the  garden,  where  he  found  his 
sweetheart  shivering  greatly  even  under  his  heavy  coat, 
as  she  leaned  over  the  wall  and  tried  to  see  through  the 
mists  that  clouded  the  valley  below. 

"It  is  arranged,"  said  Trillon,  with  a  comforting  arm 
about  her.  "You  will  be  quite  all  right  here,  and  well 
treated  until  we  can  look  about  us  —  till  I  can  render  the 

241 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

mas  a  little  more  fit  for  its  mistress.  Meanwhile"  —  he 
slipped  a  bank-note  into  her  hand  —  "you  can  be  making 
preparations.  Get  a  market-day  ticket  to  Aries  — " 

He  could  see  her  burning  face  even  in  the  dim  light. 
"It  is  a  shame,"  said  she,  "and  worse  than  a  shame,  that 
you  should  pay  for  my  wedding  clothes!" 

He  took  this  lightly:  "But  I  shall  have  to  buy  you 
clothes  afterwards,  all  your  life,  dear  child,"  said  he,  "so 
what  matter  when  we  begin  ?  It  is  quite  the  same  when 
we  are  hi  our  graves." 

"It  is  not  the  same  to  me  now,"  said  she.  "And  when 
I  think  of  it,  I  am  almost  sorry  I  left  the  convent." 

"Shall  I  take  you  back  then?"  he  asked,  with  a  twin- 
kling eye. 

At  that,  she  laid  her  face  against  his  shoulder  and  said 
that  she  must  be  content. 

"It  is  the  better  part,"  he  answered.  "And  now,  three 
kisses  and  I  must  be  away.  I  have  many  things  to  do; 
but  I  shall  come  back  and  tell  you  how  they  go." 

She  gave  him  the  kisses  with  a  sudden  abandonment  of 
passion  that  amazed  him  rather  than  stirred  to  any  return. 
In  that  moment  of  action  he  was  hardly  capable  of  even 
sympathetic  response;  he  was  too  busy  clearing  away  in  his 
own  mind  the  figurative  boulders  that  lay  heaped  high 
on  his  path. 

When  he  had  departed,  going  first  to  the  Pit  of  Artaban 
to  see  that  his  property  was  safe  in  the  charge  of  the  acolyte 
and  his  slothful  parent,  Madaleno  continued  in  the  same 
place,  dreaming  new  dreams  and  remembering  the  old 
that  were  coming  true. 

242 


THE  DISPOSITION  OF  MADELOUN 

Emilio  came  out  to  her  there,  and  barely  kissed  the 
cheek  that  with  all  simplicity  was  offered. 

"Eh,  well,"  said  Emilio,  "will  you  come  in  and  have 
some  coffee  ?  I  cannot  help  thinking  you  were  better  off 
in  the  convent." 

Madeloun  looked  at  her  with  sudden  anger,  but  checked 
the  words  on  her  tongue. 

Then  Emilio  spied  the  bank-note:  "But  did  he  give  you 
that?  Before  I  would  go  to  a  man  without  a  dowry — " 

"You  taunt  me?"  gasped  Madeloun.  "When  you 
have  it  all  —  everything  here  ?  I  will  not  stay  one  mo- 
ment —  I  will  — " 

Then  Emilio  was  frightened,  remembering  that  the 
rain  of  louis  d'or  would  cease  as  suddenly  as  it  began,  if 
the  girl  were  driven  away. 

"I  meant  no  harm  indeed,"  said  she  quite  civilly;  and 
with  no  small  amount  of  cleverness  diverted  the  girl's 
thoughts.  "But  you  know  what  kind  of  place  it  is  where 
you  will  be  going  to  live?" 

Madeloun  looked  at  her,  for  a  moment  in  doubt. 
Then  she  said  proudly:  "I  do  not  see  that  it  matters  in 
the  least." 

"Oh,  very  well."  Emilio's  shrug  as  she  turned  away 
raised  more  anxiety  in  Madeloun's  soul  than  the  girl  would 
confess  to  herself.  "Come  in  to  your  coffee,"  called 
Emilio  from  the  doorway. 

But  Madeloun  waited  yet  a  little  by  the  wall,  with  busy 
mind.  It  seemed,  then,  that  her  hero  of  a  day,  who  had 
so  proudly  likened  himself  to  the  golden  hawk  that  flies 
straight  into  the  sun  of  his  desire  —  that  her  man  was  not 

243 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

so  very  different  from  the  folk  among  whom  she  had 
lived  at  Castelar;  that  he,  too,  was  bound  to  know  struggle 
and  to  taste  failure.  But  yet  her  heart  leaped  up  in  riot 
against  her  judgment  —  the  dreary  past  was  a  dream, 
she  was  free,  and  this  troubled  present  was  bound  by  the 
very  strength  of  her  love  to  end  in  a  golden  future. 


244 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

BREAKFAST  AT  THE  PRESBYTERY 

FATHER  GOUGOULIN  was  not  one  to  do  without  milk 
for  his  breakfast.  In  the  seasons  when  this  commodity 
was  not  to  be  had  in  the  village,  he  had  it  brought  daily 
from  a  distant  mas  or  even  from  a  village  far  away.  A 
great  jugful  steamed  tantalizingly  in  Trillon's  nose  as  he 
stood  in  the  dining-room  of  the  presbytery,  waiting  for 
his  Reverence  to  appear.  To  be  sure,  he  had  impro- 
vised a  piteous  sort  of  little  ddjeuner  in  his  windmill,  black 
coffee  hastily  warmed,  and  not  hot  enough,  without  milk 
or  sugar,  and  with  only  a  little  stale  bread.  And  he  had 
been  up  all  night,  and  had  worked  in  the  dawn,  unhar- 
nessing his  mule  and  carrying  water  and  attending  to  the 
needs  of  his  farmyard.  And  at  the  end  of  all  that,  he  had 
had  the  long  walk  back  to  the  village.  Moreover,  the 
table  was  laid  temptingly  with  fresh  butter  and  with  the 
delicious  twisted  rolls  that  are  called  fougasso.  It  was 
no  wonder  that  Trillon's  mouth  watered  and  that  he 
forgot  all  sentimental  needs  in  a  raging  desire  that  the 
priest  should  invite  him  to  breakfast. 

Father  Gougoulin  kept  him  waiting  long;  and  at  last  ap- 

245 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

peared  in  leisurely  fashion,  unfolding  his  two  days'  old 
Figaro. 

Trillon  did  not  hesitate  to  open  fire.  "I'm  hoping," 
said  he,  "that  since  your  Reverence  has  sent  for  me,  you 
will  invite  me  to  breakfast,  for,  indeed,  I  am  a  famished 
man!" 

A  moment  Father  Gougoulin  gaped  at  the  sheer  im- 
pudence —  so  he  considered  it  —  of  the  remark.  Then 
he  laughed,  and  remembering  that  he  was  in  debt  for  a 
luncheon  of  considerable  expense,  rang  the  bell  for  a 
second  cup.  Another  factor  in  his  complaisance  was  his 
own  knowledge  how  he  had  outwitted  the  rascal  by  his 
telegram  to  the  Mother  Superior,  the  day  before.  He 
was  prepared  to  be  light  and  facetious ;  but  he  was  not  alto- 
gether free  from  a  little  uncertainty  as  to  how  it  was  best 
to  treat  the  fellow.  On  the  whole,  he  considered  it  wise 
to  be  as  easy-going  as  possible. 

"But  I  never  turn  the  starving  away  hungry.  I  am 
surprised,"  he  began  genially,  as  he  motioned  Trillon  to 
the  place  opposite  him,  "to  see  you  so  early  this  morning." 

His  voice  grew  abstracted  as  he  talked,  for  he  had 
caught  sight  of  something  interesting  in  his  paper,  as  it 
appeared,  and  gave  half  an  eye  to  it  and  the  other  to  his 
jougasso.  Between  the  two,  his  early  guest  had  for  the 
moment  small  attention.  But  Trillon  was  quite  happy, 
pouring  hot  milk  into  his  coffee  and  helping  himself  to 
butter.  Moreover,  when  he  had  been  advised  of  the 
sacerdotal  visit  the  day  before,  he  had  put  together  Jaque- 
lin's  narrative  and  Madeloun's  account  of  how  she  had 
been  watched,  and  formed  a  shrewd  notion  of  what  Father 

246 


BREAKFAST  AT  THE  PRESBYTERY 

Gougoulin  had  been  doing,  and  why  he  looked  so  pleased 
with  himself.  He  anticipated  the  revelation  of  the  truth; 
but  for  a  while  he  was  content  to  eat  in  silence,  though  his 
yellow  eyes  twinkled  at  the  prospect  of  the  fray  before  him. 

So  it  happened  that  he  was  well  on  in  the  course  of  a 
comfortable  meal  before  the  priest  remembered  him,  laid 
aside  his  Figaro,  and  dipping  his  fougasso  up  to  the  hilt 
in  coffee  —  to  him  butter  was  no  luxury,  and  he  sometimes 
disliked  it  —  signified  his  readiness  to  listen. 

"Your  Reverence,"  suggested  Trillon,  "this  is  amusing, 
seeing  that  you  have  sent  for  me;  but  I  think  we  should 
both  be  more  inclined,  if  we  waited  until  the  coffee  had  had 
time  to  take  effect  a  little.  And  if  you  will  permit,  I  have 
more  of  those  excellent  cigars  which  I  trust  your  Reverence 
found  safe  upon  your  return  home  after  our  last  meeting  ?" 

Gougoulin  nodded,  by  no  means  as  ashamed  as  one 
might  think,  of  his  part  in  that  little  escapade. 

"Still,"  said  he,  "we  may  as  well  begin  now." 

What  Trillon  would  have  said  will  never  be  known,  for 
at  that  moment  the  priest's  housekeeper  laid  before  him  a 
telegram  that  the  postman  had  brought  with  the  letters. 

As  he  read  it,  his  face  lost  all  geniality.  "You  know 
something  of  this?"  he  asked,  holding  the  paper  up  by 
one  end. 

Trillon  did  not  try  to  read  it. 

"Yes,"  he  said  simply,  "it  was  my  doing;  and  I  had 
decided  to  come  to  you  even  before  I  had  your  message, 
to  ask  you  to  give  out  the  banns  as  soon  as  possible." 

Father  Gougoulin  pushed  away  his  second  cup  of 
coffee  so  violently  that  it  made  great  brown  splotches  on 

247 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

the  cloth;  then  he  fell  to  pacing  the  room,  dark  red  with 
anger  that  he  tried  in  vain  to  control. 

"Are  you  a  devil?"  he  spluttered  at  last,  "that  you  dare 
to  ask  my  hospitality  after  —  after  — " 

"And  what  are  you,"  asked  Trillon,  as  cool  as  the  other 
was  furious,  "that  you  grant  it  after  yesterday?  But  in 
the  end,  what  harm  is  done  by  our  eating  together  .  .  .  ?" 

"Where  is  Madaleno?"  interrupted  the  priest. 

"She  is  in  good  hands,"  said  Trillon  easily. 

"Where?"  repeated  the  priest,  like  an  angry  bull. 

Trillon  rose:  "Father  Gougoulin,  it's  of  no  importance 
to  me  whether  we  have  your  consent  to  our  wedding  or 
not.  What  insuperable  objection  you  have  to  her  marry- 
ing me,  I  cannot  understand.  So  far  I  have  deferred  to 
you  from  a  fancy  that  she  would  be  happier  to  feel  that 
she  had  kept  a  promise  that  was  demanded  unfairly,  if 
ever  in  the  world.  But  it  is  unwise  of  you  to  go  on  in  this 
fashion.  Unless  you  are  willing  to  come  to  terms,  I  shall 
take  her  where  I  please,  and  as  I  please  —  and  be  damned 
to  you!"  Something  like  this  he  said  in  its  Provenfal 
equivalent,  cheerfully,  his  feet  apart,  and  his  hands  thrust 
deep  into  the  pockets  of  his  baggy  trousers. 

' '  You  threaten  me  ?  "   The  priest  was  almost  inarticulate. 

"That  appears  to  be  the  case." 

Father  Gougoulin  looked  him  over:  "You  rascal  — 
you  masquerader  —  you  vagrant  —  you  buffoon!  You 
take  a  helpless  girl  out  of  a  convent,  in  which  she  has  been 
placed  by  her  family  and  her  priest,  and  you  ask  me  to 
countenance  such  a  proceeding  ?  And  without  doubt  you 
have  scarcely  a  sou  to  your  name!" 

248 


BREAKFAST  AT  THE  PRESBYTERY 

"On  the  contrary,"  said  Trillon  coolly,  "I  have  still 
upwards  of  a  hundred  francs;  and  to-morrow  I  shall  have 
more  if  I  like." 

"And  you  propose  to  live  —  how?"  demanded  the 
priest  sharply. 

"How?"  said  Trillon  amiably,  thinking  that  this 
savoured  a  little  of  compromise,  if  not  of  out-and-out 
yielding.  "Oh,  well,  as  you  know,  I  have  bought  a 
farm—" 

"A  farm!"  repeated  the  other,  and  could  get  out  no 
more  for  scorn:  "A  farm!" 

"You  have  seen  it,"  observed  Trillon  calmly,  "I  under- 
stand. But  in  time  it  can  be  made  to  pay." 

"And  meanwhile — ?" 

"Meanwhile,  we  shall  manage."  He  could  not  control 
a  broad  smile. 

"It  would  be  as  well,"  said  the  priest  impressively,  "to 
throw  the  girl  down  from  the  high  rock  of  Briazon,  as  they 
treated  prisoners  of  war  in  the  old  days.  But  in  truth, 
she  shall  go  back  to  the  convent  — " 

"As  soon  as  you  can  lay  hands  on  her?"  supplemented 
Trillon. 

He  was  not  unprepared  for  a  stream  of  denunciation, 
long  and  priestly;  but  he  shook  it  off  as  a  duck  shakes  off 
water. 

"And  you  have  the  impudence  to  come  to  me — ?" 
stammered  the  priest  at  last. 

"Bon-dieu!"  says  Trillon.  "I've  got  what  I  want.  I 
come  for  your  sanction  —  for  the  sanction  of  the  Church 
—  only  to  please  Madeloun.  You  told  her  —  foolishly, 

249 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

no  doubt,  if  you  wished  to  keep  her  a  nun  —  that  when  I 
could  farm  the  Pit  of  Artaban  — " 

The  priest  snorted. 

"Wait  till  the  spring,"  said  Trillon  calmly.  "A  farm 
is  not  made  in  a  minute.  My  luck  will  not  desert  me. 
You  will  see.  I  shall  be  rich  yet  from  Artaban." 

"When  you  are,"  said  the  priest,  "when  you  are  — " 

"It's  a  truce,  then,  is  it?"  asked  Trillon. 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"  Eh,  well,  am  I  to  marry  the  girl  out  of  hand  —  in 
Aries,  perhaps?  or  am  I  to  hold  off  a  little  longer  on  the 
chance — ?" 

"She  is  here?"  the  priest  caught  him  up. 

Trillon  shrugged.  "I  have  all  respect  for  the  Church, 
but  I  await  my  answer." 

Father  Gougoulin  considered,  chin  in  hand:  "Made- 
loun  has  been  my  charge  from  the  day  of  her  birth  — 

"You  talk,"  says  Trillon,  "as  if  I  contemplated  making 
her  a  heretic  or  a  Jew." 

"When  you  can  keep  her,"  continued  the  priest,  his 
temper  now  in  hand. 

"Eh,  well  —  then?" 

"  Come  to  me  and  we  will  talk." 

An  answer  shot  to  Trillon's  lips,  "Then  let  us  talk  now;" 
but  he  remembered  somewhat  uncomfortably  that  it 
would  be  difficult  for  him  to  point  to  visible  means  of 
support.  "I  must  get  on  with  the  farm,"  said  he,  with  a 
twinkle.  "And  meanwhile  — 

"Meanwhile?"  —  the  ecclesiastic  would  not  help  him 
out. 

250 


BREAKFAST  AT  THE  PRESBYTERY 

"I  suppose  she  must  stay  on  at  her  brother's." 

Father  Gougoulin  smiled  faintly,  but  said  nothing. 

"Hah!"  said  Trillon.  "You  would  be  all  against  me, 
I  know,  village  and  priest  together,  with  two  or  three  rival 
suitors.  Well,  that  is  the  fun  of  life.  We  shall  see  how 
far  I  am  a  match  for  you  all  —  tron-de-goi !  We  call  a 
truce?  Or  no,  you  do  your  worst.  But  I  shall  come 
back  to  you  in  a  few  weeks,  when  I  have  my  house  ready 
for  the  bride.  You  encourage  me,  father.  I  thank  you 
for  your  good  breakfast  —  adessias!" 

He  bowed  himself  out  with  theatrical  politeness,  and 
did  not  see  the  smile  the  priest  shed  upon  his  Figaro,  as 
he  murmured  to  himself:  "I  was  a  fool  to  send  for  him; 
but  there  are  ways  and  ways  of  fighting  — " 

But  if  Trillon  had  heard,  undoubtedly  he  would  have 
answered  with  zeal:  "No  doubt!" 


251 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

MADELOUN  DOUBTS 

FROM  the  presbytery  Trillon  strolled  through  the  village, 
by  no  means  as  down-hearted  as  he  should  have  been, 
until  he  came  to  the  Cabro  d'Or,  where  he  found  Made- 
loun  making  a  pathetic  pretence  at  playing  with  her 
sister-in-law's  children.  Old  Borel  sat  too  on  the 
terrace,  vegetating  in  the  sun,  and  now  and  again 
addressing  a  remark  to  the  girl,  but  forgetting  to  listen 
to  the  answer. 

To  him  came  Trillon  straight  and  put  the  question 
bluntly:  "I  am  going  to  marry  Madeloun  before  long. 
You  give  your  consent  ?  Yes  ? ' ' 

Auzias  looked  at  him,  mumbling  the  clove  in  his  mouth. 
"Who  are  you?"  he  asked. 

"I  am  your  son-in-law,"  said  Trillon,  "and  when  we 
set  up  housekeeping,  I  and  Madeloun,  you  shall  come 
and  live  with  us  —  eh?" 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Auzias,  "yes."  Then  he  added  with 
amazing  lucidity:  "What  does  the  cure*  say?" 

"He  says,"  answered  Trillon,  more  for  the  daughter 
than  for  the  father,  "that  when  I  am  able  to  show  a  suffi- 

252 


MADELOUN  DOUBTS 

cient  rente,  then  we  can  talk.  Meanwhile,  I  have  your 
permission  —  hein  ?  It  is  as  well." 

He  gave  the  old  man  no  chance  to  deny,  turning  at  once 
to  the  daughter:  "It  is  good  to  see  you  in  the  old  dress, 
Leleto.  Come,  now,  we  must  have  a  talk,  I  and  you; 
and  you  shall  see  what  I  have  been  doing  on  my  land." 

She  rose  at  once  to  go  with  him,  and  they  passed  down 
the  village  street  in  silence,  each  as  keenly  aware  of  whis- 
pered comment  from  behind  closed  shutters  and  sun- 
screens, as  they  had  been  on  that  first  day  of  his  coming. 

They  found  little  to  say,  even  when  they  had  passed 
through  the  Porte  Horloge,  and  were  descending  the 
mountain-track;  but  for  their  very  lack  of  words,  each 
thought  the  more  deeply. 

Madeloun  stopped  short  at  perceiving  an  inscription  in 
red  upon  a  big  boulder  overhanging  their  path,  "THIS 
WAY  TO  MAS  ARTABAN,"  and  an  arrow. 

Then  she  sat  down  on  the  bank  and  laughed  until  she 
wept. 

"You  think  you  have  only  to  call  a  thing  by  a  name  to 
make  people  believe!"  she  got  out  at  last. 

"It  is  one  way,"  says  Trillon,  looking  down  at  her,  his 
hands  in  his  pockets.  "The  countryman  was  made  to 
regard  his  new  boots  as  a  brace  of  partridges.  Do  I 
or  do  I  not  look  like  a  farmer?  Give  me  your  hand  and 
we  will  go  up." 

But  in  some  freakishness  of  spirit,  she  sprang  away 
from  him,  and  scrambled  up  without  assistance. 

Familiar  as  she  was  with  the  place,  she  gave  a  little  cry 
of  wonder  to  see  how  it  was  changed.  The  straggling 

253 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

uneven  wall,  which  already  had  collapsed  here  and  there 
into  a  mere  rubble  of  stones,  impressed  her  as  an  achieve- 
ment in  itself.  She  was  astonished  to  see  the  colour  of  the 
good  red  earth  among  the  boulders,  and  great  dark 
patches  where  the  furze  had  been  burned  away. 

She  turned  to  him  with  a  surprised  admiration  in  her 
eyes. 

"Got  on  a  little,  have  I?"  he  asked,  not  slow  to 
drink  in  her  approval.  "Here  we  shall  plant  beans  in 
the  spring  and  a  few  potatoes.  Yonder  I  shall  set  out  a 
dozen  olive-trees.  For  the  almonds  and  the  teazle  and 
the  vines,  we  must  wait.  Here,  we  shall  keep  the  beasts 
and  here  the  carts,  here  the  sheep,  and  here  we  shall  build 
an  oven.  The  windmill  —  eh,  well,  that  will  make  an 
excellent  dove-cote  one  day  when  the  house  is  finished." 

He  could  hardly  speak  for  the  interruption  of  her 
bubbles  of  laughter,  as  she  perceived  the  gory  sign- posts 
that  labelled  different  parts  of  the  estate. 

"Well,  what  would  you?"  said  he  at  last,  rather  nettled 
by  her  mirth. 

"There  never  was  anybody  so  mad  as  you,  Trillon," 
she  told  him.  "But  where  is  the  new  house?" 

He  pointed  to  the  primitive  dwelling  hewn  in  the  rock. 
"With  a  front,"  said  he,  "and  doors  and  windows,  and 
partitions  inside,  we  shall  do  better  than  most  farmers." 

"And  who  is  to  build  it?"  she  would  know. 

"Who  but  myself?" 

' '  And  meanwhile  —  ?  " 

"Meanwhile,  I  live  here."  He  pushed  aside  the  rude 
door  he  had  managed  to  fashion  and  hang  on  his  mill. 

254 


MADELOUN  DOUBTS 

She  peeped  within.  The  one  room  was  dark  and 
crowded  with  stores;  but  tidy  enough,  with  the  trimness 
of  a  ship's  cabin. 

When  she  came  out,  shading  her  eyes  from  the  sudden 
dazzle  of  the  sun,  she  asked  prosaically: 

"And  while  you  do  all  this,  where  do  you  get  your 
money?" 

He  was  rather  annoyed  that  she  should  so  meddle  in  a 
matter  that  was  not  a  woman's  affair;  and  he  told  her  so, 
somewhat  bluntly. 

She  bit  her  lip,  pouting  at  the  rebuff,  but  still  she  showed 
a  curious  persistence:  "I  think  I  ought  to  know." 

He  changed  his  manner:  "Can  you  not  trust  your 
hawk?" 

"  Even  hawks  must  eat,"  said  she. 

"Eh,  well — "  he  humoured  her.  "There  is  no  lack 
of  prey  in  the  world." 

She  scarcely  heard  this,  being  all  at  once  intent  upon  a 
new  problem:  "Where  is  your  water?" 

"I  shall  dig  a  well,"  said  he,  as  one  who  had  thought 
the  matter  out. 

She  looked  at  him  doubtfully.  He  found  everything  so 
easy  beforehand.  Was  he,  after  all,  made  up  of  words? 
Were  his  promises  only  breath  ?  And  what  was  his  love  ? 
True,  he  had  made  some  beginning.  She  could  see 
that  .  .  . 

What  she  could  not  see  —  poor  child !  —  being  not 
expert  in  matters  of  land,  was,  how  far  he  was  from  the 
stage  of  producing  crops  from  this  little  tract  of  wilderness 
that  he  had  bought  so  gaily.  But  she  was  very  clear  in 

255 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

her  own  mind  that  they  must  have  some  definite  under- 
standing before  she  could  proceed  a  step  further  in  the 
situation.  She  looked  about  for  support,  and  at  last  sat 
down  on  a  boulder  that  served  Trillon  in  lieu  of  the  stone 
bench  that  stands  usually  in  front  of  farmhouse  doors 
From  this  vantage-point  she  looked  at  him  and  laid  bare 
her  mind. 

"It  is  this  way,  Trillon,"  said  she.  "You  have  saved 
me  from  a  living  death,  and  I  am  more  grateful  to  you 
than  I  can  ever  put  into  words.  More  than  that,  I  am 
ready  to  marry  you  any  day  —  only  you  know  what  stands 
between  us.  You  say  you  can  get  over  that,  and  when 
you  do  ...  But  even  then,  to  my  mind,  that  is  not  all. 
Suppose  we  were  free  to  marry  to-morrow  —  what  then  ? 
You  gave  me  money  —  and  perhaps  I  ought  not  to  ask 
—  to  my  shame  I  bring  you  nothing,  not  so  much  as  one 
piece  of  linen,  but  that  I  cannot  help  .  .  .  say  what  you 
will.  You  once  told  my  mother  you  had  no  rente  and  — 
say  what  you  will  —  I  am  uneasy.  We  cannot  live  as 
the  birds  do." 

' '  Why  not  ?  "  asked  Trillon  lightly ;  but  his  mind  was  run- 
ning on  the  curious  fact  that  for  the  moment  the  girl  was 
arguing  very  much  after  the  fashion  of  Father  Gougoulin. 

He  walked  away  from  her  towards  the  edge  of  the  cliff, 
with  a  sudden  impulse  to  flight  that  should  carry  him  out 
of  all  this  bother.  Inaccessible,  behind  convent  walls, 
Madeloun  had  seemed  so  very  desirable.  Now  that  she 
was  free  and  willing  to  be  kissed  when  he  pleased,  she  had 
lost  a  little  of  her  charm.  He  feared  his  own  tempera- 
ment. South  America  —  Africa  —  stretched  out  luring 

256 


MADELOUN  DOUBTS 

arms.  And  he  could  so  easily  be  out  of  these  toils  into 
which  he  was  stepping.  On  the  one  hand,  he  could  not 
quite  conceive  himself  tied  to  a  domestic  hearth,  earning 
his  daily  bread  after  the  fashion  of  the  men  in 
Castelar;  on  the  other,  there  were  women  all  over  the 
world  .  .  . 

His  gloomy  reflections  were  cut  short  by  Madeloun's 
pleading  voice:  "It  is  not  that  I  dread  being  poor,  Trillon. 
And  I  am  willing  to  work  —  oh,  until  the  ends  of  my 
fingers  drop  off!  But  it  is  that  one  must  have  something 
to  build  upon,  you  know  —  not  a  handful  of  gold  one 
week  and  starvation  the  next." 

She  reasoned  too  damnably  well,  Trillon  had  to  confess 
to  himself,  and  she  a  woman  who  ought  not  to  be  meddling 
with  such  things  at  all!  And  she  held  him  to  the  point 
so  that  he  had  a  strong  feeling  of  a  noose  held  ready  for 
his  neck.  And  this  he  hated,  as  you  may  guess. 

He  had  a  conviction  that  the  time  for  deserting  the 
girl  with  any  degree  of  credit  was  past;  and,  although  the 
life  of  freedom  —  vagabondage  —  as  it  receded  became 
infinitely  desirable,  even  as  Madeloun  herself  had  been 
while  she  was  safe  in  the  convent,  he  put  all  thought  of 
this  away  with  a  sigh,  and  prepared  to  consider  how  a 
decent,  respectable  home  might  be  attained. 

"Leave  it  to  me,"  he  said  to  her.     "I  will  find  a  way." 

When  she  looked  round  about  her  with  a  sudden  gleam 
of  half- apologetic  laughter,  he  was  angry  again.  Was  he 
not  doing  all  that  any  man  could  —  more  than  any  other 
man  could?  And  the  ungrateful  huzzy  had  her  fun  out 
of  the  situation. 

257 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

"Mind  your  sewing,"  he  told  her,  with  a  touch  of 
sharpness,  "and  when  you  are  ready  for  the  banns,  I  will 
not  keep  you  waiting." 

She  looked  at  him,  suddenly  wistful  again:  "If  you 
would  only  tell  me  how  things  stand?  Perhaps  I  might 
help  a  little  .  .  .?" 

At  this,  he  found  occasion  to  laugh:  "You?  Help  by 
keeping  yourself  out  of  the  cure's  hands.  I  ask  no  more." 

He  fell  into  consideration  so  deep  that  he  did  not  hear 
her  say:  "I  am  going  back  now." 

She  waited,  then  she  suddenly  clasped  her  hands  to- 
gether and  turned  away,  unhappy.  Would  all  fulfilment 
of  dreams  be  as  little  sweet  as  this  ?  she  asked  herself. 

She  had  nearly  reached  the  edge  of  the  slope,  before  he 
stirred  himself  and  ran  after  her: 

"Hoi  —  Madeloun!" 

She  would  not  turn  for  a  reason  that  she  had;  but  on 
the  contrary  quickened  her  pace  and  let  herself  run  lightly 
down  to  the  road. 

There  he  speedily  overtook  her  and  caught  her  roughly 
in  his  arms.  ' '  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  he  asked  in  a  passion. 

She  smiled  at  him  from  his  shoulder,  and  when  she  saw 
the  answering  leap  of  light  in  his  yellow  eyes,  as  he  kissed 
her  again  and  again:  "I  wanted  to  see  whether  you  loved 
me  still.  I  think  that  unless  I  find  a  way,  you  will  not 
love  me  long." 

"How?  how  that?"  he  spluttered.  "Unless  you  find 
a  way?" 

"Yes,"  said  she,  still  sadly.  "Oh,  you  are  quick  and 
you  are  strong;  but  you  are  not  of  the  world  that  I  know 

258 


MADELOUN  DOUBTS 

at  Castelar;  and  it  may  be  that  you  will  not  be  true  to  me. 
But  if  ever  you  grow  indifferent,  I  tell  you  now,  it  is  I  that 
will  cast  you  off." 

Africa  and  South  America  lost  their  charms  over  against 
the  sweetness  of  Madeloun's  lips. 

"Eh,  well,"  said  the  hawk,  "you  shall  find  a  way  if  you 
can;  but  I  think  instead  that  we  shall  find  some  way 
together." 

She  was  not  wholly  convinced,  but  whispered  still:  "I 
wonder.  But  I  shall  pray  every  night  to  Our  Lady,  and 
perhaps  ..." 


259 


CHAPTER  XXX 

A  CURIOUS  END  TO  AN  ODD  CHAPTER 

BUT  several  days  came  and  went,  and  nothing  of  import 
happened. 

Madeloun  journeyed  to  Aries  and  returned  with  a 
modest  household  provision,  far  less  than  would  have 
been  hers  long  years  before,  had  her  parents  intended  that 
she  should  marry.  For  herself  she  bought  little,  her 
shame  being  real  that  Trillon  should  have  to  pay  for 
these  things,  even  before  she  took  his  name. 

The  night  of  her  return,  he  came  to  her  as  she  sat  very 
tired  in  her  garden.  For  a  few  moments  they  were  silent, 
watching  a  group  of  quarrymen  on  the  homeward  road. 
A  snatch  of  song  floated  up : 

"S&nso  amor  la  vido  es  crudblo." 

And  Madeloun,  who  knew  the  man,  had  a  momentary 
picture  of  his  home:  a  courtyard  littered  over  with  fowls 
and  children;  wine  and  bean- salad  on  the  stone  table 
under  the  vine-arbour;  the  wife  milking  the  goat  for  the 
baby's  supper.  She  had  a  sudden  despair  that  she  should 
never  know  this  life  of  happy  toil  in  the  sunshine.  To 
marry  a  quarryman  —  yes,  that  was  one  thing;  but  to 

260 


A  CURIOUS  END  TO  AN  ODD  CHAPTER 

marry  one  who  was  stung  as  if  with  a  poison,  so  that  it 
was  in  his  blood  to  rove. 

"If  you  were  to  try  that?"  she  suggested  timidly. 
"Go  to  the  quarry  of  Sant  Pau  and  ask  for  work.  They 
always  need  men  there.  And  we  should  have  more  than 
twenty  francs  a  week.  It  is  nothing  to  be  poor  if  one 
knows  where  the  next  meal  is  to  come  from." 

He  looked  at  her  sharply,  then  laughed,  but  said  nothing. 

Sudden  passion  stirred  in  her  eyes.  "I  shall  turn  goat 
soon"  —  which  hi  Provencal  threatened  him  with  speedy 
loss  of  patience.  "But  will  nothing  move  you  to  common 
sense?" 

"Listen,  Leleto"  —  he  was  perfectly  good-natured. 
"My  mind  also  has  been  running  quarryward.  I  have 
been  thinking  that  I  might  go  and  strike  a  bargain  for 
some  stones  and  build  up  the  old  house  for  us  two  imme- 
diately. I  cannot  take  you  to  live  in  a  windmill." 

"To  build  up  the  house  —  yes,"  she  said  shrewdly. 
" But  how  fill  the  pot?" 

"Why  worry  about  the  pot,"  he  insinuated,  "when  you 
are  going  to  have  me?" 

"  I  could  not  make  broth  of  you  "  —  she  half  yielded  to 
his  coaxing. 

"  Eh,  well,  but  we  have  a  few  sheep  and  fowls;  and  did 
you  ever  know  a  time  when  I  could  not  get  more  when  I 
wanted  it  ?  " 

"I  do  not  know  you  very  well,"  she  admonished  him. 
"But  you  said  you  had  no  rente,  and  how  one  should  live 
on  land  that  bears  nothing  —  ?" 

"  You  are  practical,  Madeloun, "  said  he,  with  a  change 

261 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

of  mood.  "But  if  you  will  not  take  the  chances  with  me, 
you  have  only  to  throw  me  over." 

"What,  then?"  says  she. 

"Then"  —  he  meditated  a  while  —  "I  should  have 
my  choice  between  Jano-Mario  and  the  long  white 
road." 

This  she  considered  too  much  for  a  girl  of  any  pride. 
"Take  Jano-Mario,  then,"  said  she,  and  tried  to  pass  him 
to  go  into  the  house. 

He  barred  her  way:  "To  be  honest,  I  prefer  the  road. 
But  look  you  now,  Leleto,  if  I  give  up  my  roaming  on 
your  account,  can  you  not  be  content  to  share  with  me  a 
free  life  in  the  sun  and  the  wind?" 

She  looked  at  him,  uncomprehending.  It  is  difficult  to 
instil  the  spirit  of  adventure  into  the  hedge-bird. 

"Ah,  no,"  he  answered  himself  suddenly,  "you  like  a 
house  with  curtains." 

And  still  she  was  silent,  grieved  and  obstinate,  and  not 
knowing  how  to  urge  her  point. 

"Well,  and  you  shall  have  your  curtains,  if  they  would 
make  you  happy.  But  how  can  you  expect  to  keep  me 
long  within?" 

She  did  not  answer  that,  her  mind  still  bent  on  the  one 
thing.  "You  will  not  turn  quarryman,"  she  said  at  last, 
"because  you  fear  the  work." 

He  laughed,  not  without  vexation:  "And  yet  I  have 
worked  these  last  weeks.  How  much  land  have  I  cleared  ? 
how  much  wall  have  I  built  ?  Even  while  you  were  away 
at  Aries,  I  spent  hours  in  the  old  rock-house  planning  how 
it  might  best  be  turned  into  a  dwelling.  And  all  this,  to 

262 


A  CURIOUS  END  TO  AN  ODD  CHAPTER 

say  nothing  of  the  care  of  the  animals,  the  carrying  of 
water  .  .  .  What  would  you?" 

"There,  again,"  she  complained,  "I  am  only  a  silly 
girl,  but  I  know  you  cannot  have  a  farm  without  water." 

"We  must  dig  until  we  find  water,"  said  Trillon  pa- 
tiently. 

"Then  dig!"  she  cried,  with  passion.  "And  when  you 
have  found  it,  come  to  me  again!" 

"You  talk  like  the  priest,"  said  he.  "Really,  it  is 
enough  to  make  a  man  — " 

"What,  then?"  she  asked;  but  he  would  not  conclude 
his  sentence. 

The  silence  had  become  awkward  when  she  spoke  again. 
"  It  is  one  of  three  things.  Either  you  tell  me  what  money 
you  have  that  we  must  live  upon,  or  you  follow  my  plan 
of  taking  work  at  the  quarry,  or  — 

She  hesitated  to  pronounce  the  conclusion. 

"Or  you  throw  me  over?"  said  he. 

"Or  you  must  find  some  other  way,"  she  said. 

"I  don't  like  to  be  threatened,"  said  Trillon,  "but  it  is 
quite  likely  that  I  shall  find  some  other  way." 

He  turned  as  if  to  go,  but  she  flung  herself  upon  him 
and  clung  very  sweetly:  "Don't  be  angry  with  me.  It  is 
only  —  that  I  cannot  understand  — " 

"Yes,"  he  said  gently,  trying  to  put  her  aside,  "it  is 
that.  You  cannot  understand.  But  without  doubt  I 
shall  find  a  way." 

The  quarrymen  were  close  under  the  wall  now,  and  the 
one  that  was  singing  had  a  merry  note  of  a  "sweet  little, 
pretty  little  olive-plucker,"  and  as  his  footsteps  died 

263 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

away  he  had  yet  another  song  to  warn  his  wife  of  his 
coming : 

"Nanoun,  vaqui  lou  soufeu" 

But  poor  Madeloun  was  wretched  because  her  man 
was  out  of  temper  with  her. 

He  held  her  at  arm's  length  as  he  said:  "If  you  will  know 
how  much  money  I  have  in  the  world,  it  is  less  than  a 
hundred  francs  together;  and  as  I  will  not  go  saw  stones 
at  another  man's  bidding — "  He  changed  his  sentence  ab- 
ruptly:  "  Do  you  see  me,  my  girl,  brought  down  to  that,  tied 
by  the  leg  week  in,  week  out,  in  order  to  earn  a  few  pitiful 
francs  ?  It  would  be  more  profitable  to  take  to  stealing — 

"You  would  not!"  she  interrupted,  breathless. 

"Why  not?"  —  he  spoke  with  the  utmost  coolness. 
"Better  men  have  gone  that  way  before  me." 

She  turned  away,  wondering  if  she  had  ever  understood 
him  the  least  bit  in  the  world. 

"If  wives  cannot  endure  beggary,  they  must  take  what 
they  get,"  said  he.  "However,  you  can  always  be  rid  of 
me.  That  would  be  no  difficult  matter.  Only"  —  he 
seemed  to  be  thinking  aloud  —  "that  I  have  sworn  to 
put  the  thing  through  — " 

It  seemed  to  her  that  all  her  blood  flew  into  her  head, 
in  the  swift  passion  of  the  South:  "But  not  if  I  refuse!" 
she  cried,  with  her  little  fists  clenched  and  beating  each 
other.  "Will  you  turn  quarry  man?" 

"No,"  says  he  calmly.  "Curse  or  no  curse,  will  you 
let  me  have  the  banns  cried  in  Aries  to-morrow?" 

" No ! " — she  fairly  stuttered  with  anger.  "No  —  no  — 
no  —  no  —  no!  Never!" 

264 


A   CURIOUS  END   TO  AN  ODD  CHAPTER 

The  garden  was  so  dusky  by  this  time  that  neither  could 
see  the  other's  face. 

"Then  good-night,"  was  his  last  word. 

She  let  him  go  —  would  not  so  much  as  answer.  At  the 
door  into  the  terrace,  he  turned  and  looked  back  —  with 
what  expression,  she  could  not  tell.  She  heard  him 
exchange  a  few  words  with  her  father  and  Jduse,  then 
by  the  silence  she  knew  that  he  was  gone. 

"He  is  a  devil!"  she  whispered  to  herself,  her  fists  still 
clenched  in  anger.  "It  is  as  I  thought  in  the  beginning. 
And  I  am  without  help.  He  will  not  work  like  other 
men  —  and  what  are  we  to  do  .  .  .  ?  For  when  he  comes 
back  to-morrow,  if  he  asks  again  that  he  should  let  the 
banns  be  cried  —  I  do  not  know  —  I  might  have  to  give 
in  ...  There  is  no  standing  long  against  him  .  .  .  He 
flies  to  his  end  through  everything  .  .  .  over  all  things. 
.  .  .  And  I  am  without  help." 

Meanwhile,  Trillon  had  strolled  out  into  the  village 
street,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  his  head  sunk  on  his  chest, 
with  all  the  air  of  a  man  who  did  not  notice  particularly 
where  he  was  going.  I  cannot  myself  understand  how 
such  a  thing  could  happen;  but  certain  it  is  that  instead 
of  turning  to  the  left  for  the  Porte  Horloge  and  the  home- 
ward way,  he  bent  to  the  right  towards  the  Porte  Murette 
and  the  road  that  goes  out  into  the  world.  Therefore, 
instead  of  the  rough  track  among  the  olive-groves,  he  had 
first  the  cobbles  of  the  Roman  road,  which  ought  to  have 
broken  into  his  numbness  of  mind,  but  did  not,  and  after- 
wards the  dusty  highway. 

When  he  reached  the  foot  of  the  hill  and  began  to  feel 
265 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

the  plain  beneath  his  feet,  even  then  he  might  have  turned 
at  right  angles  to  his  course,  and  stumbled  his  way  over 
meadows  and  between  trees  until  he  reached  the  base  of 
his  headland.  But  an  hour  after  he  had  left  the  garden, 
he  was  walking  along  the  dusty  road;  and  two  hours  later, 
he  was  still  facing  the  same  way  and  a  long  distance  from 
Castelar.  It  seemed  as  if  he  lacked  the  will-power  to 
turn,  as  if,  like  a  wax  automaton,  he  would  go  on  and 
on,  forever  and  forever,  until  he  reached  some  insuper- 
able barrier  that  should  stir  him  out  of  his  dream. 


266 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

THE  NEWS  THAT  RAMOUN  BROUGHT 

THE  next  morning,  when  Madeloun  came  downstairs, 
a  little  late  after  a  wakeful  night,  she  found  the  shepherd 
Ramoun  drinking  coffee  on  the  terrace. 

She  was  not  unaware  of  a  slight  gleam  of  interest  in 
Trillon's  rival;  and  as  for  Ramoun,  he  showed  all  his 
white  teeth  as  soon  as  he  perceived  her. 

"  H oi"  said  he.  "  I  suppose  I  am  the  first.  I  had  the 
curiosity  to  come  and  ask  you.  Where's  your  man?" 

She  went  rather  pale:  "What  do  you  mean?" 

"He  is  not  at  the  place  he  calls  his  farm,"  said  Ramoun. 
"I  passed  by  early  this  morning,  and  heard  one  of  his 
sheep  making  such  a  disturbance  that  I  had  a  mind  to  go 
and  see  what  it  was.  I  called  at  first  and  shouted;  but 
had  no  word  of  reply.  So  I  climbed  up  and  found  the 
windmill  shut,  and  one  of  the  sheep  mightily  caught  between 
two  boulders  and  half  skinned.  So  I  got  the  creature  loose, 
but  whether  it  will  die  of  its  struggles  and  its  injuries  and 
its  fright,  I  cannot  say.  They  were  hungry,  all  of  them, 
sheep  and  fowls  and  mule,  so  when  I  had  shaken  off  that 
devil  of  a  yellow  dog,  I  looked  about  for  something  to 

267 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

feed  them;  but  when  I  saw  the  bed  had  not  been  slept  in, 
I  thought  you  ought  to  know.  So  I  came  away  and  left 
them  hungry,  little  as  I  liked  it.  Where  is  your  man 
—  hein  ?" 

Madeloun  had  grown  as  white  as  the  piece  of  linen  in 
her  hand:  "Something  has  happened  to  him.  He  has 
gone  over  the  cliff  ..." 

"Not  he,"  said  Ramoun.  "I  had  a  look.  Oh,  he's 
safe  enough.  What  could  happen?" 

"Yes,  what  could  happen?"  —  Madeloun  defied  him. 

"Eh,  well,  he  has  deserted  you,  my  girl,"  said  Ramoun 
brutally,  "and  that's  what  could  happen.  I  never  be- 
lieved much  in  your  foreign  birds  of  fine  feather.  He  has 
gone  back  where  he  came  from.  And  what  now  —  hein  ? ' ' 

She  dropped  upon  the  stone  bench  by  the  shepherd's 
side,  and  her  work  fell  unheeded  to  the  ground.  But, 
after  a  time,  her  spirit  rose  in  such  defence  as  she  could 
find. 

"Whatever  it  is,  I  shall  know  soon.  He  will  send  me 
word.  It  must  be  something  important  that  took  him 
away,  unless,  indeed"  —  her  eyes  grew  dark  with  sudden 
fear  —  "you  have  murdered  him,  some  of  you,  and  hidden 
his  body  ..." 

Ramoun  interrupted  with  a  great  laugh  —  a  laugh  too 
sonorous  for  his  small  frame:  "That  does  not  happen 
here,  Leloun,  my  girl.  Only  at  election-time  we  take  to 
knives  or  chairs,  but  that  is  all  in  the  open  —  hein?" 

But  she  did  not  hear  this,  wringing  her  hands  still  with 
fear,  and  gasping  under  her  breath:  "What  shall  I  do? 
Oh,  what  shall  I  do?" 

268 


THE  NEWS  THAT  RAMOUN  BROUGHT 

"If  I  may  be  so  bold,"  said  Ramoun,  leaning  towards 
her.  "Give  me  leave  to  feed  those  beasts  and  — " 

"No,  I  will  do  that.  That  is  mine  to  do,"  she  caught 
him  up  quickly. 

He  shrugged:  "Well,  at  least,  do  not  give  your  man  too 
much  grace.  Take  up  with  a  better  fellow,  and  one  who 
has  wanted  you  all  his  life.  Till  that  foreigner  came, 
Madeloun  — " 

"Don't  bother  me,"  she  cut  short  his  pleading.  "Can- 
not you  see  that  I  am  hi  trouble?" 

"If  you  look  at  it  that  way,"  he  muttered,  now  sulky, 
"you  can  only  wait  —  wait  until  his  lordship  is  pleased  to 
come  back  and  claim  you  again.  And  whether  that  will 
be  one  year  or  twenty,  who  can  tell?" 

"Hsh!"  said  she.     "I  must  think.  " 

And  when  he  had  been  silent  a  little  while:  "Go  away 
—  I  cannot  think  while  you  are  here." 

But  Ramoun  did  not  move. 

"Look  you  now,  Madeloun,"  he  urged.  "It  would  be 
a  sufficient  jest  on  your  mighty  man  who  leaves  you  so 
easily,  if  you  were  to  get  married  while  he  is  away.  And 
I  have  good  living  wages  and  could  make  you  as  com- 
fortable as  any  woman  hi  the  village.  And  all  the  trouble 
would  be  settled  and  done  with." 

He  had  touched  three  chords  there  that  appealed 
to  her  strongly.  For  a  second,  her  black  eyes  snapped 
at  the  possibility  of  paying  out  the  man  who  had 
won  her  the  first  day  without  difficulty,  and  now  felt 
free  to  treat  her  as  he  pleased,  and  to  leave  her  when 
he  liked.  Then  she  remembered  what  he  was,  and 

269 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

said    faintly:  "You    would    have   to    reckon   with   him 
afterwards." 

"And  if  I  had?"  demanded  Ramoun,  having  apparently 
forgotten  the  episode  of  the  cup  of  milk.  He  added 
confidently:  "He  will  never  come  back." 

"And  you  do  not  even  know,"  said  Madeloun,  now 
scornful,  "that  he  has  gone  away!"  Her  first  fear,  born 
of  their  difference  of  opinion,  the  night  before,  had  given 
way  to  a  full  return  of  confidence. 

"Know?"  repeated  Ramoun.  Then  he  laughed: 
"Meanwhile,  the  animals  are  hungry." 

"I  will  feed  them,"  she  began,  then  bit  her  lip,  remem- 
bering that  she  had  spent  all  the  money  Trillon  had  given 
her  and  had  nothing  else. 

It  was  as  if  Ramoun  guessed  the  difficulty.  "You 
see,"  he  said,  "undoubtedly  the  man  would  have  food 
stored  away  in  his  mill,  but  it  is  not  for  me  to  search  there. 
I  might  have  stolen  everything  he  has  and  serve  him  right; 
but  we  in  Castelar  are  honest  folk." 

Yet  his  words  suggested  to  the  girl  a  solution,  although 
she  decided  that  he  was  not  the  man  to  carry  it  into  effect. 

"Ramoun,"  she  said,  "if  you  are  my  friend  now,  and 
if  you  go  away  and  act  with  discretion,  I  shall  be  grateful 
and  remember  it  after." 

He  read  more  meaning  into  her  words  than  perhaps 
she  intended;  and  yet  I  am  not  sure  that  she  did  not,  in 
the  exigency  of  the  moment,  consent  to  his  wilful  mis- 
interpretation. 

"But  how  long,"  said  he,  "will  you  give  the  adven- 
turer?" 

270 


THE  NEWS  THAT  RAMOUN  BROUGHT 

"Not  too  long,"  she  answered,  and  he  read  a  threat 
against  Trillon  in  her  tone. 

"And  if  I  go  away  now  — ?" 

"We  can  talk  later,"  said  she,  with  a  smile,  "although 
there  is  still  Father  Gougoulin,  and  there  will  be  diffi- 
culties — " 

He  was  content  with  what  he  had  gained,  and  was 
afraid  of  spoiling  the  good  effect  of  his  visit,  so  departed, 
saying  only:  "I  shall  come  back  in  a  week."  And  to 
this  she  assented. 

For  a  few  moments,  her  desolation  returned,  and  she 
lashed  her  brain  with  vain  speculations  as  to  what  had 
happened.  The  significant  thing  was  that  he  had  dis- 
appeared without  a  word. 

But  presently  she  laid  her  work  aside  and  went  to  her 
father.  It  was  clear  to  her  that  her  immediate  duty  was 
to  care  for  the  suffering  animals. 

She  found  Auzias  alone,  for  Jduse  had  gone  to  Paradou 
for  stores,  Emilio  was  in  the  fields  gathering  mulberry- 
leaves  for  the  silk-worms,  and  the  children  were  scattered, 
playing  up  and  down  the  village  street. 

Auzias  was  standing  just  outside  the  sun-screen,  with 
an  air  of  wondering  what  to  do  with  himself. 

"Will  you  walk  with  me  this  way  a  little,  my  father?" 
asked  Madeloun;  and  he  was  rather  pleased  and  flattered 
that  she  took  so  much  notice  of  him.  He  hobbled  with 
her  as  briskly  as  he  might,  without  asking  questions;  and 
she  for  her  part  was  silent  until  they  had  passed  the  Porte 
Horloge.  She  was  trying  to  realize  what  would  be  her 
position  if  Trillon  had  indeed  gone  away  never  to  return. 

271 


The  three  points  that  loomed  most  sharply  before  her 
were  that  she  could  not  continue  on  at  the  Cabro  d'Or, 
that  her  position  in  the  village  would  be  humiliating  if 
not  unendurable,  and  that  wherever  she  was,  unless  she 
could  make  up  her  mind  to  return  to  the  convent,  whither 
her  priest  drove  her,  she  must  either  marry  Ramoun  — 
and  there  was  also  a  dim  figure  of  Peire  in  her  mental 
background  —  or  find  work  that  would  bring  her  the 
needs  of  life.  To  marry  anyone  —  that  meant  further 
conflict  with  the  cure".  And  if  Trillon  came  back  —  ah, 
come  back  he  would !  —  she  would  like  to  punish  him  a 
little,  but  not  beyond  hope. 

She  put  aside  consideration  for  the  moment,  and  told 
Auzias  their  errand.  He  shrank  back,  alarmed  at  the 
idea  of  breaking  into  anybody's  house.  And  as  she 
could  not,  for  pride  or  some  other  reason,  explain  to  him 
the  exact  state  of  affairs,  she  made  it  important  that  he 
had  been  suddenly  called  away  on  some  matter,  and  that 
the  responsibility  fell  upon  her,  as  his  promised  wife,  to 
care  for  his  property.  It  would  never  do  to  leave  it  un- 
protected to  tempt  the  village.  Auzias  still  mumbled 
and  shook  his  head  as  with  trembling  hands  he  opened 
the  door  that  Ramoun  had  shut  as  he  had  found  it. 
Madeloun,  watching  him  from  the  boulder  that  served  as 
bench,  wondered  that  she  had  not  undertaken  the  business 
alone,  and  then  realized  that  the  presence  of  both  lent  it  a 
certain  countenance  and  publicity.  She  left  her  father 
to  hunt  out  the  food  that  must  supplement  the  scanty 
out-door  diet  of  Artaban;  and  herself  took  the  water-cans 
to  the  source  where  it  ran  into  the  aqueduct. 

272 


THE  NEWS  THAT  RAMOUN  BROUGHT 

While  she  was  returning,  sadly  bent  under  the  weight  of 
her  load,  she  elaborated  the  plan  of  what  she  must  do. 
She  dropped  breathless  on  the  turf  and  left  the  old  man 
to  pour  water  into  the  troughs.  When  he  came  back  to 
her,  she  was  ready:  "My  father,  how  if  you  and  I  should 
come  here  to  live  while  the  master  is  away?  We  could 
keep  things  safe." 

He  ruminated  a  while  over  this,  then:  "And  what 
would  they  say  in  the  village?" 

"Let  them  talk!"  she  cried  savagely. 

He  seemed  to  try  to  think,  to  piece  out  several  things, 
but  presently  gave  up  the  process:  "But  why  should  we 
come?" 

"Eh,  well,  for  the  animals,  if  for  nothing  else.  It  is 
too  long  a  walk  for  each  day." 

"And  then?"  said  Auzias.  It  seemed  as  if  the  mo- 
mentary responsibility  drew  out  a  little  of  his  old  self. 

"And  then,"  said  Madeloun,  "well,  then!  Emilio 
would  not  be  sorry  to  be  rid  of  us;  two  less  mouths  to 
feed." 

"And  how  should  we  live?"  asked  Auzias  again. 

"Not  that  we  should  touch  anything  here!"  said  Made- 
loun hotly.  "  He  shall  find  it  all  as  he  left  it,  except  what 
we  give  to  the  animals.  I  could  work  —  oh,  I  could  sew. 
I  could  find  many  things  to  do." 

She  looked  at  the  windmill  with  its  tremendous  cliff 
background;  at  the  far  plain  smoky  with  heat,  as  if  some 
strange  slow  combustion  were  taking  place  among  the 
marshes.  For  a  moment,  the  tang  of  the  wild  life  entered 
into  her;  and  she  was  then  more  nearly  in  sympathy  with 

273 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

Trillons's  love  of  the  open  than  ever  before.  "We  could 
manage  very  well,"  she  said,  "until  he  returns.  And 
that  will  not  be  long.  Before  the  flocks  come  down  from 
the  mountains  —  you  will  see." 

He  tried  to  judge  for  her  —  the  poor  old  man !  —  but 
his  brain  was  flabby. 

"Wait  a  week,"  was  all  he  could  find  to  say.  "You 
could  come  every  day  for  a  week?" 

She  pondered  this  advice.  At  the  end  of  a  week, 
Trillon  might  return;  Ramoun  would  certainly  come. 
There  was  time  then  perhaps  to  make  up  her  mind. 

"But,"  says  she,  "the  door?" 

He  propped  it  up  as  well  as  he  could;  and  when  he  had 
succeeded  to  his  own  satisfaction,  she  admitted  that  his 
opinion  was  not  without  force.  "We  are  honest  folk 
here,"  said  he. 

"I  will  wait  a  week,"  she  said,  "but  at  the  end  of  that 
time  —  Sweet  Virgin,  what  will  become  of  me?" 


274 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

MADNESS  AT  THE   WINDMILL 

BUT  at  the  end  of  a  week  what  does  become  of  us? 
However  much  we  think  in  the  stern  tragedy  of  youth 
that  a  time  is  impassable,  we  are  presently  over  its  borders 
and  viewing  another  week  of  fresh  difficulty. 

The  days  went  on  and  Madeloun  was  still  at  the  Cabro 
d'Or,  wondering  why  she  lived,  yet  eating  her  beans  and 
drinking  her  black  coffee,  only  with  less  gusto  than  if 
Trillon  had  been  there.  She  was  very  uncomfortable 
and  worried,  but  she  was  not  without  hope.  Almost  the 
worst  of  her  situation  was  the  noise  of  wagging  tongues 
that  was  reflected  to  her  through  the  ears  of  her  relations. 
And  whenever  she  set  out,  as  she  did  twice  a  day,  in  her 
self-imposed  task  of  caring  for  Trillon's  animals,  she  was 
liable  to  village  encounters.  Once,  near  the  end  of  the 
time  she  had  mentioned,  it  was  Zoue.  "So  your  man  has 
left  you  again  —  hein?  Well,  be  thankful;  girls  have 
suffered  worse  and  got  over  it.  It  is  a  common  lot. 
Take  up  with  one  of  the  village  lads  again  —  Ramoun 
—  hein  ?  There  are  plenty  with  good  looks  and  money 
enough  to  keep  you.  Laugh  and  let  him  go." 

275 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

Madeloun  pulled  her  arm  away  from  the  palsied  touch. 
"You  want  to  talk,"  said  she  bitterly.  "Well,  go  then 
and  tell  everybody  that  I  shall  live  in  the  windmill  at 
Artaban  —  I  and  my  father  —  there!" 

Certainly,  she  provided  all  the  country  round  with  the 
spice  of  gossip;  but  her  own  public  statement  served  only 
to  strengthen  her  in  her  purpose.  Ramoun  came  Sunday 
evening  in  new  clothes,  and  was  sent  sharply  away. 

Then,  Madeloun,  having  put  aside  this  temptation  to 
punish  her  fugitive  lover,  and  feeling  virtuous  in  self- 
sacrifice,  urged  Jduse  to  help  her  make  the  windmill 
habitable  for  the  old  man  and  herself.  It  was  only  the 
question,  she  said,  of  a  little  partition  to  make  two  rooms 
out  of  one,  and  something  to  sleep  on. 

"And  you  will  eat  —  what?"  asked  Jduse. 

"I  can  sew.  I  had  to  sew  in  the  convent,"  she  said, 
with  stinging  cheeks,  "and  I  will  ask  people  to  let  me  have 
work.  It  will  save  them  the  long  walk  all  the  way  to 
Paradou." 

Perhaps  if  Jduse  had  realized  how  bitter  to  her  was  the 
bread  of  this  humiliation,  he  would  have  spared  her;  but 
with  the  memory  of  his  wife's  taunts  and  complaints  fresh 
in  his  mind,  he  decided  that  the  girl  was  taking  a  most  sen- 
sible course,  and  agreed  to  help  her  all  he  could. 

On  the  following  day,  the  removal  took  place,  and 
furnished  the  little  town  with  more  delicious  matter  for 
mouthing.  There  were  some  that  blamed  Jduse;  but 
more  that  regarded  the  undertaking  as  another  freak  of  a 
girl  who  was  too  mad  even  to  stay  in  a  convent  when 
she  was  put  there. 

276 


MADNESS  AT  THE  WINDMILL 

But  before  they  had  half  concluded  with  this  topic  she 
came  to  them,  going  from  house  to  house,  and  asked  for 
work.  The  schoolmistress  headed  the  way  by  giving  her 
a  cotton  blouse  to  make,  then  a  farmer's  daughter  who 
longed  for  finery  and  offered  less  money  than  she  would 
have  to  give  at  Paradou.  Altogether,  Madeloun  went 
home  in  a  curious  mixture  of  rage  at  the  sympathy  she 
had  evoked,  and  pride  at  the  work  and  promises  of  work 
that  she  had  succeeded  in  collecting. 

By  Tuesday  afternoon  she  and  the  old  man  were  settled 
in  their  strange,  new  home,  she  had  begun  her  first  sewing, 
and  Auzias  was  delightedly  pottering  about,  collecting 
dead  olive-wood  where  he  had  permission,  fetching  water 
and  caring  for  the  beasts. 

When  J6use  was  ready  to  return  to  Castelar,  after  un- 
harnessing the  mule,  which  had  been  used  to  transfer  the 
few  household  goods,  and  helping  in  other  ways  as  far  as 
was  consistent  with  his  dignity,  he  said  rather  awkwardly : 
"I  have  left  you  wine  and  olives  and  potatoes,  and  you 
can  always  come  in  and  get  bread."  I  am  not  aware 
whether  you  know  that  Jduse,  in  addition  to  the  inn  and 
the  olive-mill,  had  also  inherited  his  father's  function  of 
baker  to  the  community? 

"Yes,"  said  Madeloun  staidly,  "and  I  shall  make 
dresses  for  the  children  in  return."  She  was  determined 
to  be  beholden  to  her  family  as  little  as  possible. 

"And  when  the  cold  weather  comes — ?"  he  hinted. 

"By  that  time,"  said  Madeloun  bravely,  " — long  be- 
fore, Trillon  will  have  returned,  and  we  shall  be  married, 
without  doubt.  If  not"  —  she  hesitated  —  "if  any- 

277 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

thing  should  happen,  we  shall  find  a  place,  I  and  my 
father." 

"The  animals  here  would  have  to  be  sold,"  mused 
J6use,  "and  whose  the  money  would  be,  I  don't  know. 
It  is  likely  that  the  Commune  would  give  it  to  you.  You 
could  always  come  back  to  us,  you  know,"  he  concluded 
half-heartedly. 

She  shut  her  lips  fast:  "There  is  also  the  convent." 

Jduse  shrugged  and  strolled  home,  without  further 
argument;  and  the  girl  and  the  old  man  were  left  to  begin 
their  solitary  life  by  the  Pit  of  Artaban. 

Madeloun  was  amazed  to  find  how  quickly,  for  all  her 
trouble,  she  began  to  like  it.  The  delicious  air  of  early 
summer,  the  sweet  open  view,  the  friendly  animals,  her 
skill  in  her  own  dainty  hand-work,  even  the  roughness  of 
the  gypsy  accommodation,  the  unprotected  fire,  the  scarcity 
of  utensils  and  house  comforts  —  all  brought  her  a  sense  of 
freedom  and  joy,  and  contributed  to  her  sure  hope  that 
Trillon  would  come  back  and  explain  his  absence.  But 
for  the  necessities  of  her  work,  which  required  her  to  go 
to  the  village  and  accept  the  well-meant  commiseration 
of  her  neighbours,  she  would  have  been  not  so  ill- content. 
And  certainly  she  had  to  thank  the  convent  for  this,  that 
as  the  result  of  her  disciplinary  labours  there,  she  was  now 
able  to  hear  the  occasional  clink  of  her  own  silver  in  her 
hand. 

The  old  man  too  revived  when  free  from  the  oppression 
of  his  daughter-in-law.  He  was  able  to  do  a  fair  share 
of  work,  and  even  hung  a  basket  on  his  arm  and  relieved 
Madeloun,  for  the  most  part,  of  the  village  shopping. 

278 


MADNESS  AT  THE  WINDMILL 

So  the  days  slipped  into  weeks,  and  Madeloun  ceased 
to  speak  openly  of  the  time  when  Trillon  should  return; 
but  she  must  have  had  still  some  hope  that  this  strange 
present  would  vanish  in  a  blaze  of  excitement,  such  as  he 
had  always  brought  before,  to  keep  her  endurance  alive. 

The  first  visitor  that  she  had,  before  even  Emilio  trailed 
out  to  the  Pit,  with  her  children  hanging  to  her  skirts, 
was  Father  Gougoulin. 

By  due  questioning  of  his  housekeeper,  he  had  kept 
himself  informed  of  the  situation;  and  he  had  not  been 
slow  to  chuckle  to  himself  over  its  oddities. 

He  bided  his  time,  however;  but  presently  came,  on  a 
windy  day,  when  the  mistral,  battling  with  the  fierce  heat, 
made  walking  just  possible. 

Madeloun  was  sitting  alone  with  her  work,  just  within 
the  windmill  door,  when  his  bloated  dark  face,  dropping 
sweat,  came  into  her  patch  of  shade. 

"Eh,  well,"  he  said.  "How  now?"  And  he  dropped, 
puffing  hard,  upon  a  boulder. 

"Well,  my  father,"  said  she,  and  continued  demurely 
with  her  stitching. 

"Not  broken-hearted  —  hein?"  He  studied  her 
shrewdly. 

"Am  I  so  badly  off?"  she  asked,  with  a  touch  of 
defiance. 

He  looked  about  him:  "In  the  beginning,  it  was  a  jest, 
but  in  time  a  jest  ceases  to  be  amusing.  How  long  will 
you  go  on  this  way?" 

"Until  the  winter,"  she  answered  promptly.  "Before 
the  winter  I  shall  be  married,  or  else  — " 

279 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

"Or  else?"  —  he  watched  her. 

"  Or  else,  my  father  must  go  back  to  the  inn,  and  I  — 
I  must  choose  between  earning  my  own  living  out  in  the 
world,  and  —  the  convent.  I  do  not  know"  —  she  said 
impulsively  —  "if  I  am  left  —  alone  —  I  think  I  would 
go  back,  if  the  Sisters  would  take  me." 

"Ah  —  ah,"  said  Father  Gougoulin.  He  scrubbed  his 
chin,  looked  across  the  plain  and  sighed.  "Everything 
points  to  that,"  he  said  presently. 

"Are  you  so  sure,  my  father?"  Madeloun  dimpled  a 
little.  "I  am  not  so  sure  myself." 

"  Have  you  not  had  enough  of  trouble  out  in  the  world  ?" 

"Almost,"  she  said.  "Almost.  But  I  must  wait  a 
little  longer." 

"Ah,"  said  he,  "you  will  be  of  my  mind  yet." 

She  looked  at  him,  with  sudden  contradiction  in  her 
spirit.  He  was  so  sure  of  his  case  that  he  stirred  up 
rebellious  thoughts;  but  she  kept  them  to  herself. 

When  they  had  talked  a  little  longer  and  he  rose  to  go, 
he  briefly  urged  her  to  come  to  Confession  and  Mass,  and 
left  her  without  much  argument.  He  fancied  that  he 
could  see  the  progress  of  events  along  the  line  that  he 
desired;  but  he  wondered  heavily,  as  he  plodded  home- 
ward, how  far  the  attainment  of  his  purpose  would  bring 
him  peace.  But  whether  or  not,  he  was  bound  fast,  by 
the  superstition  of  a  vow,  to  do  his  utmost. 

Madeloun  left  alone  fell  into  greater  depression  than 
she  had  before  known  since  she  went  to  the  windmill.  It 
seemed  to  her  then  that  all  roads  led  to  the  convent  door. 
She  pictured  herself  back  within  the  walls  at  Sant  Alari, 

280 


MADNESS  AT  THE  WINDMILL 

and  Trillon  returning,  perhaps  rich  this  time  and  inde- 
pendent. Even  if  she  had  taken  the  vows,  she  could  not 
feel  sure  that  he  would  not  have  her  out  again.  It  would 
be  no  punishment  to  him  to  find  her  there;  and  she  longed 
to  punish  him  for  his  presumption.  On  the  other  hand, 
if  he  came  back  and  found  her  married,  that  would  be  a 
worthy  vengeance  indeed.  And  if  he  never  came  back? 
Well,  even  in  that  case,  she  would  have  a  husband  and  a 
home,  and  would  make  the  best  of  them  as  most  women 
do  ... 

Towards  sunset  that  evening,  when  she  was  still  in  this 
mood,  and  while  her  father  was  away  fetching  water, 
Peire,  the  quarryman,  stepped  over  the  wall  and  came  up 
to  her,  as  she  stooped  to  hang  the  pot  over  the  smoky  fire. 

He  found  an  immediate  excuse  for  helping;  and  when 
the  matter  had  been  adjusted,  without  asking  permission, 
he  lounged  upon  a  boulder  not  far  from  the  one  to  which 
she  had  returned  with  her  sewing. 

"Do  you  know  what  they  say  of  you  up-there,  Made- 
loun?"  he  began,  without  preamble. 

"That  I  am  as  mad  as  Trillon?"  said  she.  "Did  you 
walk  all  this  way  to  tell  me  that?" 

"But  no,"  he  answered  simply.  "I  came  to  say  that  I 
am  not  of  their  opinion,  and  to  suggest  something  .  .  ." 

She  raised  her  eyes  from  her  work  and  looked  at  him 
attentively.  Certainly,  he  was  very  different  from  Ra- 
moun,  the  shepherd;  taller,  more  bony,  not  so  dark  and 
monkey-like,  with  big  sunburned  features  that  passed 
for  good-looking  in  the  village,  and  with  steady  blue  eyes 
—  an  inheritance  from  some  remote  ancestor  of  the  North. 

281 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

He  seemed,  she  thought,  a  man  of  kind  heart,  and  rumour 
had  it  that  he  was  considerate  with  his  widowed  mother. 

"What  then?"  she  asked,  returning  to  her  work. 

"  We  must  think  of  the  winter,"  he  began,  with  obvious 
embarrassment.  "The  winter  will  be  upon  us,  and  this 
is  no  fit  place  for  you.  You  should  have  a  house  of  your 
own." 

She  flushed  with  anger,  and  a  sharp  retort  rose  to  her 
lips;  but  he  looked  so  simple  and  well-meaning  that  she 
lacked  heart  to  bring  it  out.  "What  would  you?"  she 
asked,  after  a  pause. 

"Eh,  well,  Madeloun,  you  know  in  your  heart  what  I 
have  been  thinking  these  many  years,  though  I  don't  urge 
that  upon  you  now.  Still,  the  old  woman  would  give  you 
a  kind  welcome  ..." 

"And  my  father?"  asked  the  girl,  her  heart  beating 
thickly.  It  seemed  to  her  then  that  she  had  always  liked 
Peire  better  than  Ramoun.  How  could  she  ever  for  a 
moment  have  contemplated  the  little  fellow? 

"Eh,  well,"  said  Peire,  "if  a  man  must  take  the  one 
with  the  other — " 

Madeloun  shrugged  with  sudden  impatience:  "But  you 
said  you  did  not  come  for  that?" 

"That  was  only  in  case  you  would  not  give  me  a  hear- 
ing," he  confessed. 

She  had  to  laugh  a  little  then.  To  be  sure,  she  meant 
to  be  faithful  to  Trillon,  little  as  he  deserved  it,  to  the  last 
day  of  endurance.  Still,  in  the  meantime  —  she  checked 
her  thought,  not  wishing  to  admit  to  herself  what  it  was 
that  she  found  pleasant  in  the  situation. 

282 


MADNESS  AT  THE  WINDMILL 

"You  know,  Peire,"  said  she  gently,  "that  I  am  be- 
trothed and  that  I  cannot  listen  to  such  talk." 

"Eh,  well,"  said  Peire,  "but  you  can  listen  to  this  then. 
What  I  think  of  your  man  is  neither  here  nor  there; 
whether  he  is  likely  to  come  back  is  neither  here  nor  there. 
In  the  winter  you  must  have  a  warm  and  comfortable 
place  to  live  in.  If  I  should  build  up  for  you  the  old 
house  in  the  rock  —  hein?" 

An  impulsive  refusal  rose  to  Madeloun's  lips;  then  she 
put  down  her  work,  laid  her  finger  against  her  lip  and 
considered.  "Why  should  you ?"  she  asked,  after  a  time. 

He  shrugged  but  made  no  answer. 

"And  the  stones?" 

"I  can  cut  stones  enough  up  above  in  the  quarry  — 
not  so  good  —  yet  good  enough." 

"But  even  so,  how  could  I  pay  you  for  the  work?" 
Yet  her  imagination  tingled  at  the  thought  of  receiving 
Trillon  in  a  two- roomed — perhaps  a  four- roomed  house — 
on  his  own  land.  It  would  be  a  punishment  by  coals  of 
fire  —  sweeter  than  any  other  vengeance  that  she  could 
devise,  she  thought. 

"Well,"  said  he,  "you  shall  pay  me  later,  as  you  can. 
Meantime,  you  would  be  comfortable.  Come,  now  — 
let  us  look  at  the  place." 

So  far  she  consented;  and  when  they  stood  before  it, 
he  told  her  how  many  stones  would  be  required,  and  how 
much  lime  for  mortar.  He  said  that  he  was  mason  enough 
to  build  a  wall  with  a  plumb  line,  and  that  window-frames 
could  be  bought,  and  a  door,  in  Mausanne,  and  hauled 
with  this  very  mule  and  cart.  And  as  for  the  upper 

283 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

floors,  they  could  be  added  later;  for  the  time  the  ground 
rock1  would  serve  very  well.  To  be  sure,  he  might  need 
help  at  putting  in  the  windows  and  the  doors,  but  he 
thought  that  might  easily  be  arranged  with  the  village 
carpenter.  And  further,  as  he  would  have  to  do  his 
building  altogether  between  supper  and  dusk,  and  on 
Sundays  when  his  own  quarry  was  closed,  it  was  none  too 
soon  to  begin  if  the  place  was  to  be  habitable  by  winter. 

Madeloun  listened  and  pondered,  but  could  not  see  her 
way.  "Yet,"  said  she,  at  last,  "when  he  comes  back  he 
would  be  glad  to  have  it  done;  and  he  will  probably  bring 
money  with  him,  only  — " 

Peire  turned  his  back  upon  her  and  pretended  to  examine 
the  trunk  of  a  fig-tree  that  grew  close  to  the  wall:  "Only," 
says  he,  in  a  hoarse  voice,  "you  can  leave  us  to  settle  that 
affair  —  if  ever  he  comes  back." 

She  had  no  knowledge  of  any  grudge  between  them; 
and  therefore  she  did  not  understand  the  smile  with  which 
he  turned  to  her  at  length.  He  was  wondering  what  she 
would  say  if  she  knew  that  her  man  had  been  willing  to 
stake  her  on  a  throw  of  the  dice;  but  he  judged  it  better, 
for  the  furtherance  of  his  plan,  to  keep  this  secret  for  a 
while. 

Well,  Madeloun  knew,  of  course,  that  she  was  incurring 
a  heavy  obligation;  but  somehow,  even  her  brief  associa- 
tion with  Trillon  inclined  her  to  the  risk.  The  idea  was 
too  sweet  to  be  abandoned  over-hastily.  If  Trillon  came 
back  and  found  a  home  ready  prepared  by  the  bride 
whom  he  had  judged  so  useless  as  a  helpmeet,  who 
knew  —  ? 

284 


MADNESS  AT  THE  WINDMILL 

"Peire,"  she  said,  "do  you  understand  that  I  fully 
expect  him  to  return  before  the  winter?  And  if  then  we 
should  be  married  and  live  in  the  house  that  you  have 
built—?" 

"I  thought,"  said  Peire,  "that  you  did  not  know  where 
he  went  or  why,  nor  when,  if  ever,  he  would  come  back  ? 
So  the  talk  goes  in  the  village." 

She  bit  her  lip,  but  honesty  compelled  her:  "And  so  it  is. 
And  yet  I  understand  him  —  as  far  as  may  be  —  and 
they  do  not.  It  is  his  way  to  go  and  come  suddenly. 
Without  doubt,  he  will  return  just  when  you  have  finished 
your  work  and  when  you  are  thinking  — 

"Well,"  said  Peire,  "thinking  what?" 

She  blushed,  unable  to  put  into  words  the  reward  at 
which,  she  could  see  plainly,  he  was  aiming.  But,  after 
all,  she  told  herself,  if  he  understood  that  she  was  using 
him  only  as  a  means,  then  he  was  free  to  decline;  and  the 
disappointment,  if  he  persisted,  would  be  of  his  own  fault. 

"Let  us  go  down,"  she  said.  "I  can  see  my  father 
returning,  and  he  will  be  wanting  his  supper." 

Peire  lingered  yet  a  moment,  and  she  waited  with  him 
to  hear  what  he  might  say. 

"I  take  my  chance"  —  he  spoke  after  a  time.  "And 
if  he  comes  back  —  eh,  well,  we  can  see  about  payment 
then." 

There  was  a  certain  threat  in  his  words  that  troubled 
her  for  a  moment;  but  she  soon  forgot  it  in  the  excitement 
of  the  plan. 


285 


CHAPTER  XXXIH 

LITTLE  GAMES  OF  LOVE 

IN  Castelar,  it  was  soon  pronounced  a  scandal.  The 
old  women  declared  on  the  best  authority  that  there  was  a 
double  wooing,  under  their  very  eyes,  of  a  girl  already 
affianced  to  a  third  man.  For  a  time,  the  tide  of  indigna- 
tion against  the  light-headedness  of  Madeloun  was  tinged 
with  sympathy  for  the  absent  lover,  who  after  all  might 
return.  Perhaps  he  had  only  gone  away  to  earn  some 
money  for  the  huzzy?  In  consequence  of  the  rumours 
that  flew  about,  some  of  the  women  even  talked  of  with- 
drawing their  newly  granted  custom;  but  Madeloun  had 
learned  her  convent  lessons  well,  and  they  found  it  a  great 
relief  not  to  be  obliged  to  walk  to  Paradou  for  every  stitch 
that  they  lacked  time  or  skill  to  make  for  themselves. 

It  was  undoubtedly  the  case,  however,  they  whispered 
together,  that  Peire  now,  instead  of  going  home  from  his 
work,  went  straight  to  the  Pit  of  Artaban,  and  took  to 
sawing  stones  there,  high  up  in  the  quarry.  And  some- 
body had  seen  Madeloun  carrying  him  his  supper,  so  that 
he  might  work  almost  while  he  ate;  and  after  a  few  days 
of  this,  the  report  went  about  that  he  had  devised  panniers 

286 


LITTLE  GAMES  OF  LOVE 

for  the  mule,  filled  them  with  stones,  balanced  them  on 
each  side,  and  so  led  the  animal  down  before  the  ancient 
rock-house.  He  was  known  to  have  hauled  lime  and 
sand  from  Paradou;  and  presently,  as  the  story  went,  he 
cut  and  carried  only  a  few  stones  each  night,  and  began 
slowly  to  build  up  a  front  wall  from  the  heap  that  he  had. 
He  began  at  a  time  when  he  could  continue  late,  because 
of  the  full  moon,  but  afterwards,  somebody  who  had  spied 
—  I  am  not  sure  that  it  was  not  Jaquelin,  the  acolyte,  or 
his  father  —  said  that  he  worked  by  the  aid  of  a  lantern 
and  several  candles  thrust  into  bottles.  "Heaven  save 
us!"  said  the  village.  "If  an  honest,  sober  lad  like  Peire 
can  get  into  such  a  state,  what  are  we  coming  to?"  But 
there  was  laughter  as  well,  for  the  situation  was  droll. 

Perhaps  the  best  of  the  joke  was  when  the  amateur 
mason  tore  off  a  finger-nail  and  the  wound  became  a  little 
poisoned  and  he  had  to  walk  miles  to  the  doctor  to  have 
the  hand  treated.  It  was  said  that  Madeloun  had  offered 
her  man's  mule  and  charrette,  and  when  Peire  would  not 
take  them,  had  wept  and  used  bitter  words.  All  Castelar 
looked  then  to  see  his  folly  stop;  but  after  a  short  inter- 
ruption, it  went  on  as  before.  St.  John's  Day  came  and 
passed,  and  the  harvest  was  brought  in  with  song  and 
dance;  but  Peire  piled  up  stones  throughout  the  fe"te, 
and  Madeloun,  who  was  famous  for  her  grace  in  the 
rondo  and  the  jarandoulo,  took  no  part. 

But  yet  it  must  have  been  the  sense  of  the  village  dis- 
approval that  kept  her  aloof.  She  did  not  have  at  all  the 
look  of  the  maiden  forlorn  when  she  brought  her  work  to 
her  patrons,  and  took  away  in  return  silver  francs.  She 

287 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

was  positively  haughty  in  her  demeanour;  and  it  was 
much  held  against  her  that  she  never  crossed  the  threshold 
of  her  brother's  house.  Her  neglect  was  not  condoned 
even  when  she  now  and  again  spent  a  few  sous  on  sugar- 
work  for  her  nephews  and  nieces;  and  the  fact  that  she 
kept  her  father  comfortably  in  tobacco  was  balanced 
by  her  occasional  purchase  of  a  ribbon  or  an  apron  for 
herself  .  .  .  Castelar  would  not  forgive  her  until  it  knew 
why  Peire  was  building  up  the  old  house.  If  she  was 
going  to  marry  him,  that  was  bad  and  bad  enough;  if  not, 
it  was  worse. 

Then  there  was  the  shepherd  Ramoun.  Who  told  of 
the  cups  of  milk  that  he  left  surreptitiously  on  the  boulder 
at  Madeloun's  door?  Who  told  of  the  neat  little  piles  of 
cheeses  that  his  sister  had  made  with  her  own  hands,  by 
no  means  to  be  distributed  in  this  unprofitable  fashion? 
Who  told  even  of  a  toothsome  joint  of  mutton  that  mys- 
teriously disappeared  out  of  the  anatomy  of  one  of  his 
sheep,  and  was  afterwards  smelled  in  the  pot  by  somebody 
passing  along  the  mountain-track  under  the  hill,  on  the 
way  home  from  the  vineyards  in  the  plain  ? 

I  cannot  defend  Madeloun  from  the  charge  of  receiving 
these  gifts.  I  am  forced  to  conclude  that  she  believed  her 
soul  to  be  altogether  in  such  a  perilous  way,  after  she  had 
added  to  her  sins  of  convent-breaking  and  persistent  re- 
bellion against  her  priest,  the  further  incubus  of  Peire's 
mistaken  labour,  that  she  might  as  well  go  the  whole 
length  of  iniquity  and  pay  afterwards.  In  no  other  way 
can  I  explain  the  curiosity  of  her  actions. 

As  the  weeks  lengthened  into  months,  and  Trillon  did 

288 


LITTLE  GAMES  OF  LOVE 

not  reappear,  she  was  indeed  miserable;  but  she  knew 
that  she  ought  to  have  been  more  miserable  than  she  was. 
Sometimes,  she  had  to  sit  down  and  think  hard  before  she 
could  wring  out  any  tears;  but  again,  hurt  pride  and 
humiliation  stung  until  weeping  was  an  easy  matter.  In 
the  long  run,  day  after  day,  what  with  house-building  and 
a  stream  of  surprises  in  the  way  of  presents,  and  two  of 
the  handsomest  lads  of  the  village  at  her  beck  and  de- 
lightfully fierce  with  each  other,  she  could  not  find  life  too 
dull.  She  had  put  aside  her  wedding  sheets,  when  she 
began  to  sew  for  other  people;  but  she  remembered  them 
now  and  again,  and  wondered  if  she  should  have  use  for 
them  after  all.  But  sometimes  it  flashed  across  her  that 
they  had  been  bought  with  poor  Trillon's  money,  and 
what  she  should  do  with  them,  she  could  not  tell.  She 
wept  then  over  her  own  unhappinesss. 

After  such  a  process,  she  was  usually  refreshed  to  play 
off  the  two  youths  against  each  other  more  vigorously  than 
before.  Her  great  comfort  was  that  they  were  two.  And 
if  you  say  she  was  a  huzzy,  I  may  not  deny  what  I  deplore; 
but  she  was  as  God  made  her,  or,  if  you  like,  her  Graeco- 
Romano-Ligurian  ancestors  and  the  sun  of  the  Midi. 

One  Sunday  hi  August,  when  the  lower  windows  had 
been  set  into  the  house  and  the  stones  had  crawled  up 
almost  enough  to  enclose  them,  Peire  did  not  come  until 
evening;  and  then  he  brought  a  beautiful  brooch  of  gold 
filigree,  which  he  confessed  he  had  gone  to  Aries  to  buy. 

When  Madeloun  took  fright  and  would  not  have  it,  he 
made  a  show  of  indignation:  "Why  not?  It  is  bought. 
Would  you  waste  the  money  ?  It  is  not  a  ring.  It  doesn't 

289 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

bind  you  to  anything.  And  if  you  can  swallow  a  house" 
—  he  was  brutal,  but  he  carried  his  point.  And  was  he 
simple,  this  Peire,  or  in  his  own  way  subtle  ? 

That  was  the  beginning  of  more  foolishness,  for  on  the 
next  Sunday  Ramoun  came  and  perceived  the  toy.  He 
grew  black  with  jealous  rage  as  could  only  have  been 
expected;  but  afterwards  he  came  abreast  of  his  rival  by 
means  of  two  exquisite  lace  fronts  to  be  worn  between 
the  folds  of  the  fichu. 

Madeloun  expostulated  as  well  as  she  could;  but  two 
things  told  against  her  argument :  the  fact  that  she  needed 
these  tabliers,  and  longed  for  them  sorely  when  they  were 
spread  before  her  eyes;  and  the  absolute  necessity  of 
keeping  her  two  suitors  evenly  balanced  if  she  was  to 
juggle  with  them  much  longer. 

When  her  finery  lay  before  her  in  her  little  room 
in  the  windmill,  she  could  not  but  think  it  a  pity  that  so 
few  should  admire  it  —  only  herself  and  a  purblind  father 
and  two  foolish  young  men,  who  were  ready  at  the  slightest 
provocation  to  bite  each  other's  heads  off. 

She  made  a  great  resolve,  not  without  some  fluttering 
in  the  breast;  or,  perhaps,  she  yielded  to  a  great  tempta- 
tion. At  all  events,  she  decided  that  in  view  of  Father 
Gougoulin's  summons,  now  many  weeks  old,  it  was  time 
for  her  to  be  seen  in  the  church,  if  only  to  show  that  she 
could  still  hold  her  head  up  and  not  care  for  slanderous 
tongues.  And  so  she  dressed  herself  into  a  gay  peacock, 
with  all  the  new  finery  that  she  could  command,  and 
walked  boldly  up  to  the  Shrine  of  the  Four  Maries. 
Courage  failed  her  a  little  as  she  stepped  into  its  cool 

290 


LITTLE  GAMES  OF  LOVE 

dampness;  or  perhaps  she  had  already  lost  heart  from 
the  questioning  and  critical  glances  that  she  encountered 
by  the  way.  She  was  glad  to  slip  into  a  chair  behind 
Miano,  who  owns  the  broadest  back  in  the  village. 

If  she  wondered  at  the  unkind  glances  and  the  coolness  of 
greeting,  it  was  all  through  her  ignorance  of  human  nature. 
Perhaps  she  had  flattered  herself  that  the  women  would 
not  know  whence  had  come  her  new  splendour.  If  so,  the 
little  stupid  must  have  forgotten  that  Peire  had  a  jealous 
mother,  and  Ramoun  a  sister  who  drank  up  gossip  as  the 
earth  drinks  rain,  only  to  give  it  out  again  in  streams  of  slan- 
der. Madeloun  should  have  known  from  long  experience 
that  there  was  not  a  house,  from  the  ancient  quarters  of  the 
watchman,  huddled  against  the  gate,  to  the  highest  dwelling 
overshadowed  by  the  great  castle,  in  which  was  not  dis- 
cussed the  laying-out  of  every  sou  of  her  hard-earned  silver. 

So  she  gave  an  inattentive  ear  to  the  sermon,  and  after- 
wards lingered  on  the  steps  outside,  grieved  and  pouting 
because  none  of  the  neighbours  would  speak  to  her. 
But  while  she  was  still  thinking  of  their  raised  shoulders 
and  averted  glances,  she  was  startled  by  the  voice  of 
Father  Gougoulin  at  her  ear.  She  had  tried  to  escape 
his  notice  in  the  church,  and  thought  she  had  succeeded; 
but  in  any  case  she  had  not  supposed  he  could  be  so  quick 
in  getting  out  of  his  vestments. 

"Eh,  well,  Madeloun,"  said  he,  "you  have  come  to 
Mass,  but  not  to  Confession.  It  is  high  time  to  begin 
that.  Come  to-morrow  morning  after  the  service." 

She  returned  to  the  windmill,  all  her  gay  plumes  droop- 
ing, for  his  direct  command  she  dared  not  disobey. 

291 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

THE  CLIFF  OF  BRIAZON 

MADELOUN  felt  her  loneliness  even  more  that  after- 
noon, when  her  father  had  gone  back  to  the  Place 
du  Conne'table  de  Montferrand,  to  hang  over  the 
wall  with  his  cronies.  She  left  the  windmill,  still  in 
the  fine  clothes  that  she  was  too  listless  to  lay  aside, 
and  strolled  very  sadly  along  the  cliff,  wondering  what 
would  be  the  outcome  of  her  perplexities.  And  all  the 
while  crisis  was  coming  upon  her  with  the  speed  of  the 
whirlwind. 

The  herald  of  the  storm  was  Ramoun,  inoffensive 
enough  in  his  Sunday  dress,  black-  and  white-checked 
trousers,  pink  shirt,  red  necktie,  and  blue  serge  coat,  un- 
pastoral  but,  he  fondly  believed,  fashionable. 

"Come  for  a  walk,"  was  his  sheepish  invitation. 

"I  am  walking,"  said  Madeloun  sedately.  "  You  may 
come  if  you  like." 

They  were  silent,  he  staring  in  some  embarrassment  at 
the  ground,  she  dimpling  and  looking  at  him  sidewise, 
feeling  almost  her  old  self,  thus  attended  and  thus  ad- 
mired in  the  sweet  mountain  sunshine. 

292 


THE  CLIFF  OF  BRIAZON 

"How  long  are  you  going  to  live  in  this  hole?"  he 
asked  abruptly,  after  a  time. 

"Until  my  house  is  built,"  she  teased  him. 

"The  house  that  Peire  is  building"  —  he  turned  savage 
quickly.  "The  fool!  And  you  to  let  him!  I  came  to 
tell  you  so." 

"Eh,  well,"  she  answered  demurely,  "I  am  only  a  poor 
girl,  but  I  must  have  some  place  to  live.  If  that  is  all  you 
have  to  say,  you'd  better  go  home  again." 

"As  if  our  farm  were  not  open  to  you!"  said  Ramoun, 
with  scorn.  "You  promised  me  you  would  not  wait  long 
for  that  fellow." 

"It  is  not  long  yet,"  said  she,  looking  about  for  a  way 
of  escape.  She  found  it  in  the  leisurely  advent  of  Peire 
up  the  plateau;  and  waved  him  a  gay  welcome  with  her 
handkerchief. 

He  was  not  more  pleased  to  see  Ramoun  than  was  the 
latter  to  see  him;  but  they  made  the  best  of  each  other. 

"We  are  going  for  a  walk"  —  Ramoun  showed  his 
teeth. 

But  Madeloun  was  quick  with,  "Yes  —  come  along." 

Well,  then,  she  was  in  her  element,  with  two  to  juggle 
and  keep  from  smashing  each  other's  heads.  She  talked 
furiously  with  red  spots  in  her  cheeks,  and  did  her  best 
to  bring  them  into  active  conversation.  But  it  was  always 
Ramoun  that  answered,  with  a  manner  half  sulky,  half 
defiant,  blended  too  with  the  air  of  one  who  claims  a 
certain  right.  Peire  walked  half  a  pace  behind  the  two, 
cigarette  in  mouth,  eyes  on  the  horizon,  and  if  he  heard 
what  they  said  he  gave  no  sign. 

293 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

Suddenly,  he  moved  close,  caught  the  girl's  arms  and 
pinioned  them  behind  her,  muttering,  still  with  the  cigar- 
ette between  his  teeth:  "What  say  you,  Ramoun?  They 
used  to  punish  traitors  here  by  dropping  them  from  the 
cliff  of  Briazon.  She  is  a  huzzy  —  playing  with  us  as  she 
played  with  the  fellow  from  Avignon.  What  say  you? 
Shall  we  throw  her  down?" 

Madeloun  stopped  with  sudden  heart-beat,  and  looked 
over  her  shoulder  into  his  face.  Ramoun  laughed  and 
seized  her  from  the  other  side,  playfully  shaking  her  and 
dragging  her  nearer  the  edge.  And  even  as  they  stood, 
they  were  not  too  far  away. 

She  was  not  frightened,  she  told  herself,  for  she  knew 
that  it  was  all  their  way  of  joking;  but  to  please  them  she 
pretended  to  shriek  with  fear,  and  to  struggle,  calling 
upon  each  in  turn  to  save  her  from  the  other.  All  the 
while,  Ramoun  laughed  like  a  dog,  and  Peire  pulled 
her  steadily,  savagely,  in  silence,  except  that  his  feet, 
scuffling  among  the  pebbles,  sent  now  and  again  a  clump 
of  stones  rattling  down  the  cliff-side. 

When  the  three  had  arrived  so  near  the  edge  that  they 
could  look  over,  Peire  braced  himself  for  the  retreat,  but 
Ramoun  continued  a  sort  of  monkey-dance  step  of  his 
own. 

Each  had  a  hand  of  Madeloun  now,  and  each  felt  it 
suddenly  stiffen  in  his  grasp.  She  leaned  forward  so  that 
with  a  common  sense  of  danger  they  tried  to  pull  her  back. 
Her  whisper  was  too  amazing  to  be  true:  "There's  some 
one  coming  up!" 

Peire  steadied  himself  and  looked.  Ramoun  dropped 

294 


THE  CLIFF  OF  BRIAZON 

Madeloun's  hand  and  fell  on  his  knees  to  peer  over  the 
edge. 

"It  is  Trillon,"  she  whispered  again.  "Nobody  else 
would  try."  The  unuttered  question  in  her  heart  was 
whether  he  had  seen  the  three  of  them  from  the  plain 
below,  and  with  his  long  sight  had  recognized  them,  and 
had  chosen  this  mode  of  ascent  to  be  upon  them  the  more 
quickly. 

Peire  still  held  her  hand  and  she  clung  to  him  in  fear  of 
sudden  dizziness. 

Silent  and  breathless,  the  three  of  them  watched  the 
climbing  figure.  All  that  they  could  be  sure  of  was  that 
he  did  not  wear  the  blue  clothes  that  they  had  come  to 
associate  with  Trillon;  they  judged  from  his  frequent 
pauses,  and  an  occasional  flash  as  of  metal  in  his  hand, 
that  he  was  cutting  for  himself  steps  in  the  soft  limestone 
as  he  climbed.  Otherwise,  they  knew  the  ascent  was 
impossible. 

Ramoun  gave  a  sharp  cry,  and  suddenly  flung  a  handful 
of  pebbles  into  the  air.  The  climber  lifted  his  head, 
wavered,  and  for  a  second  it  seemed  to  all  three  that  he 
must  lose  his  balance  and  go  down;  but  he  recovered 
himself,  clinging  like  a  fly,  and  presently  resumed  his 
slow  upward  progress. 

"  How  dared  you  ?  How  dared  you  ?"  cried  Madeloun, 
in  a  passionate  whisper  to  the  offender,  and  her  cheeks 
were  as  white  as  paper.  Then  she  loosed  her  savage 
clutch  upon  his  arm,  hid  her  face  and  rocked  backwards 
and  forwards  in  an  agony  of  prayer.  So  reckless  was  she 
that  Peire  held  her  more  firmly.  So  they  waited,  all 

295 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

motionless  —  until  a  panting  sound  stirred  Madeloun 
from  her  fear.  She  looked  up,  and  saw  Trillon's  face,  very 
red  among  its  yellow  fluff,  just  appearing  above  the  ledge. 

A  moment  he  hung  there,  glancing  from  one  to  another 
of  the  odd  group,  with  an  expression  that  they  could  not 
fathom;  then  he  flung  up  one  leg  and  lay  at  his  ease,  resting, 
though  a  slight  push  would  have  hurled  him  to  the  bottom. 

"Come  all  the  way  —  oh,  come  all  the  way!"  implored 
Madeloun,  loosening  Peire's  hold  and  running  to  him. 

He  stopped  her  with  two  syllables.  Turning  his  yellow 
eyes  full  upon  her,  he  said,  without  passion,  "Cocotte" 

The  old  word  of  her  mother's  struck  her  like  a  blow. 
She  looked  at  him  helplessly,  as  he  continued:  "I  saw  you 
here  with  your  two  men.  You  were  better  in  the  convent 
—  hein?" 

She  was  stung  by  the  injustice,  yet  helpless  to  answer 
for  herself;  but  Peire  came  to  her  rescue,  speaking  delib- 
erately: "When  a  man  deserts  his  sweetheart,  what  can 
he  expect?" 

"What  do  I  find?"  asked  Trillon,  still  holding  them  all 
three  with  his  extraordinary  light  eyes. 

Madeloun  tried  to  speak,  but  her  lips  quivered  too  much 
for  clear  utterance:  "You  made  me  very  unhappy  — 

"But  now  you  are  consoled?"  he  asked  calmly. 

She  dared  him  for  a  second:  "I  had  to  be!  What  else 
was  to  do?" 

There  was  a  passage  of  eyes  between  them,  and  perhaps 
his  laugh  showed  defeat.  With  some  scrambling  and 
dropping  of  loose  stones  he  came  wholly  over  the  edge: 
"Well,  now  I  have  come  back,  what  next?" 

296 


THE  CLIFF  OF  BRIAZON 

Madeloun  was  encouraged  in  her  pertness.  "Like  the 
Marshal  of  France,  go  down  again,"  she  said,  laying  her 
hand  on  Peire's  arm,  even  though  Ramoun  snarled. 

"Sarnipabieune!"  She  never  knew  who  uttered  the 
word.  She  was  suddenly  shaken  off  and  flung  backwards 
into  safety;  and  the  two  men  were  locked,  heads  low  and 
necks  strained,  perilously  near  the  brink.  The  chief  fact 
in  the  poor  girl's  dazed  consciousness  was  Ramoun's 
laugh,  as  he  hastily  stumbled  out  of  the  path  of  the 
wrestlers. 

Twice  —  three  times  —  she  strove  to  force  her  way 
between  them,  with  piercing  entreaty;  but  each  time 
Ramoun  was  upon  her  and  dragged  her  back.  She  could 
only  watch  them,  Peire  grim-set  as  an  old  Roman,  Trillon 
showing  his  teeth. 

So  quickly  was  the  whole  thing  over  that  it  seemed  as  if 
they  had  scarcely  begun,  before,  as  they  staggered  and 
struggled  near  Ramoun,  he  thrust  out  his  foot  and  tripped 
Trillon  up;  and  Peire  opening  his  arms  in  sudden  self- 
defence,  the  two  were  parted.  Madeloun,  staring,  thought 
she  must  be  mad,  at  the  sight  of  Peire  among  the  stones 
and  turf,  and  Trillon  vanished.  Look  as  she  would, 
there  were  only  two  men  on  the  cliff:  Peire  half  stunned, 
Ramoun  white  and  shaking.  And  Trillon  had  given  no 
cry  as  he  went  over. 

Madeloun  was  the  first  to  waken  to  consciousness  of 
what  had  happened.  She  did  not  stop  to  look,  or  even  to 
scream ;  but  fled  along  the  edge  of  the  cliff  until  she  came 
to  the  all  but  invisible  path  by  which  the  ancient  garrison 
could  have  been  reached,  in  time  of  war,  through  a  secret 

297 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

postern  now  ruined.  By  a  labyrinth  of  zigzags  it  descends 
to  the  plain  below. 

Along  the  thread  of  this  trail  the  girl  ran  as  if  she  had 
wings,  and  scarcely  touched  the  ground,  except  for  gui- 
dance. It  was  by  miracle  that  she  reached  the  plain  alive; 
for,  indeed,  as  soon  as  she  came  to  the  low  mound,  where 
the  steep  shelving  is  finished,  she  fell  headlong  and  rolled, 
cutting  her  lip  and  bruising  her  fingers,  so  dizzy  that  for 
a  time  she  did  not  know  where  she  was. 

By  her  sudden  flight  she  had  missed  the  worst  of  the 
experience;  for  the  two  men,  when  they  found  courage  to 
look  over,  perceived  that  Trillon  had  not  fallen  all  the 
way,  but  was  hanging  like  a  cat  to  a  tuft  of  broom,  well 
beyond  reach,  except  one  should  go  down  on  a  rope. 
They  stared  at  each  other,  and  Ramoun  would  perhaps 
have  turned  to  run,  but  Peire  clutched  his  arm,  wordless. 
They  could  see  the  cracking  of  the  earth  and  the  swaying 
of  the  broom  as  Trillon  climbed  higher,  struggling  for  a 
cleft  or  a  foothold  of  any  sort  .  .  .  Long  seemed  the 
time  to  them  —  long  before  the  catastrophe  came  to  its 
climax;  but  it  was  immeasurably  short.  They  watched 
a  great  boulder  fall  with  clods  and  clouds  of  dust,  and 
tangle  so  thick  that  they  could  scarcely  descry  that  there 
was  a  human  being  within  it;  they  watched  until  this  mass 
neared  the  bottom.  But  when  they  saw  the  man  make 
one  last  frantic  clutch  at  a  projection  that  held  him  for  a 
moment,  then  seemed  to  shake  him  off  before  he  could 
have  had  much  consciousness  of  safety  —  then  with  one 
accord  they  turned  away. 

Peire  it  was  who  first  recovered  himself  enough  to  follow 

298 


THE  CLIFF  OF  BRIAZON 

in  Madeloun's  footsteps;  and  Ramoun  after,  to  see  what 
lay  at  the  foot  of  the  rocks  where  traitors  had  perished  of 
old.  When  they  neared  the  bottom,  more  slowly,  more 
steadily  than  she  had  gone,  they  found  her  just  struggling 
to  her  feet  among  the  stones  and  prickly  plants. 

Peire  was  generous.  "Look  out  for  her,  Ramoun," 
he  said.  "I  will  go  on"  —  and  gave  them  no  chance  for 
dispute.  A  moment  they  faced  each  other,  he  with  a 
terrible  guilt  in  his  eyes  that  could  not  meet  her  white- 
faced  accusation. 

Then  they  were  shaken  by  a  tremendous  peal  of  laughter 
and  Peire's  shouting.  They  followed  as  quickly  as  they 
could,  and  found  the  quarryman  doubling  up  at  intervals 
with  paroxysms  of  amusement,  and  Trillon  —  I  warn  you 
that  the  scene  lacks  dignity  —  Trillon  safe  in  a  furze  bush. 
He  was  badly  pricked,  of  course;  and  so  caught  and 
pinned  by  the  myriads  of  needles  among  which  he  had 
been  rudely  thrust,  that  he  was  unable  to  help  himself; 
but  Peire  judged  from  the  position  in  which  he  lay,  as 
well  as  from  a  hasty  investigation,  that  no  bones  were 
broken.  He  had  a  scalp  wound  from  a  rough  encounter 
with  a  boulder,  and  he  had  not  fully  recovered  the  breath 
beaten  out  of  his  body;  but  for  all  ordinary  purposes  he 
was  sound  enough.  He  even  directed  the  two  how  best 
to  extricate  him;  and,  although  swearing  under  their 
breath,  they  felt  bound  to  obey  because  of  their  common 
guilt.  And  the  first  of  their  punishment  was  to  see  Made- 
loun  tearing  her  frilled  apron  into  strips  and  binding 
therewith  the  head  of  the  wounded  man.  I  am  afraid 
they  did  not  linger  to  hear  the  lovers'  cooings;  and  they 

299 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

could  imagine  easily  enough  the  kisses  that  followed  upon 
their  departure. 

But  Trillon  said  first,  with  his  laugh  undaunted:  "What 
do  you  expect  when  you  throw  a  hawk  down  a  cliff? 
You  should  have  wrung  my  neck  if  you  wanted  to  put  me 
out  of  the  way.  But  I'll  see  you  both  hanged  sooner." 

They  found  it  difficult  to  answer,  but  Peire  was  stung 
into  the  retort:  "And  now  I  suppose  you  will  go  and  live 
in  the  house  I  have  built;  but  the  game  isn't  finished  yet." 

"No,"  said  Trillon,  with  a  sharp  look  at  the  girl,  "that 
it  never  is  when  I  am  about." 

"If  you  had  stayed  a  little  longer,"  said  Peire,  "you 
might  talk  differently.  Look  at  that  brooch." 

But  he  had  no  time,  for  Madeloun  suddenly  tore  it 
loose  and  flung  it  at  the  quarryman's  feet,  and  with  it  the 
beautiful  new  faudau,  so  that  her  neck  was  bare. 

"Take  them,"  she  cried  passionately.  "I  have  been  a 
wicked  girl!  I  hate  you  both!" 

But  Trillon  seemed  not  to  have  heard.  He  was  on  his 
feet  now,  half  leaning  against  a  boulder,  plainly  in  need 
of  strong  drink,  being  much  shaken. 

"As  for  that,"  said  he,  "I  always  knew  she, was  a  flirt. 
And  it  is  just  possible  that  I  had  my  reasons  for  staying 
away.  But  if  she  preferred  either  of  you  to  me  —  or 
would  change  her  mind  now  —  I  can  go  back  whence  I 
came.  A  dessias ! ' ' 

He  began  to  walk  unsteadily  along  the  path,  leaving 
the  two  men  dumb,  and  between  them  the  tokens  that 
had  been  hurled  at  their  feet.  But  Madeloun  ran  after 
him,  still  claiming  rather  than  giving  support. 

300 


THE  CLIFF  OF  BRIAZON 

"Do  you  want  to  chain  your  wild  hawk  after  all?"  he 
asked. 

But  her  question  was  poignant:  "How  could  you  leave 
me  so  again?" 

"That,"  said  he,  "I  will  tell  you.    Come." 


301 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

THE  CHAPEL  OF  THE  MARIES 

Low  on  the  hillside,  just  above  the  olive-gardens,  is  a 
little  shrine  built  to  two  of  those  same  Holy  Maries  com- 
memorated in  the  village  church,  the  mothers  of  St.  James 
the  Greater  and  of  St.  James  the  Less.  Tradition  has  it 
that  they  were  driven  out  of  Palestine  and  fled  in  an  open 
boat,  without  guidance  and  without  food;  and  that  they 
were  conveyed  safely  by  angels  until  they  were  moored  in 
the  shelter  of  the  rock  of  Briazon  at  Castelar,  although 
this  is  now  forty  miles  and  more  from  the  sea.  How- 
ever, on  the  hillside  there  is  a  rock  cut  with  two  figures  in 
long  draperies  —  Roman  generals,  say  wise  men,  but  the 
folk  of  Castelar  know  better,  and  have  built  against  this 
rock  the  little  shrine  of  the  Holy  Women.  Here  shepherds 
with  their  flocks  sometimes  halt  for  a  hasty  prayer,  kneel- 
ing on  the  steps  outside,  whence  through  the  open  door 
they  can  see  the  images  of  the  saints  in  their  boat  and  the 
floor  strewn  with  broom  blossom. 

Here  it  was  that  Trillon  dropped,  more  shaken  now 
than  he  was  willing  to  confess,  and  a  little  dizzy  from  the 
wound  in  his  head. 

302 


THE  CHAPEL  OF  THE  MARIES 

"First  tell  me,"  said  he,  "what  the  quarryman  meant 
by  the  house  he  had  built?" 

At  this,  she  poured  out  her  confession,  exonerating 
herself  not  a  whit  for  all  the  light  folly  that  had  ruled  her 
in  his  absence. 

He  did  not  speak  for  a  time;  but  at  last  he  said:  "It 
gives  them  some  show  of  right  —  those  who  would  have 
shut  you  up  in  the  convent." 

"You,  too?"  she  gasped.  "Oh,  I  will  go  back  there! 
I  will  never  stay  out  in  this  cruel  world.  What  can  a 
poor  girl  do?" 

But  now  he  was  laughing.  She  could  see  the  twinkle 
of  his  eyes,  half  obscured  by  the  bandage.  "After  all," 
said  he,  "you  have  learned  one  thing;  and  that  is  to  make 
other  people  work  for  you.  There's  no  reason  why  we 
should  not  reward  our  friend  the  quarryman,  some  day, 
when  we  have  come  into  our  fortune.  However,  you 
must  see  that  he  was  counting  on  my  probable  defection; 
and  that  he  meant  to  reap  his  profit  when  it  was  clear  that 
I  would  not  return.  So  he  is  not  ill  met.  He  would  have 
had  my  farm  and  my  girl  and  a  new  house  —  all  together." 

Madeloun  was  silent  a  while,  being  in  some  doubt 
whether  Peire  would  enjoy  the  patronage  of  her  man,  and 
not  satisfied  that  he  would  have  been  greatly  enriched 
had  he  taken  the  farm  as  well  as  herself.  When  she 
understood  that  Trillon  was  waiting  for  her  to  speak, 
she  continued:  "I  learned  more,  living  out  here  like 
a  gypsy.  I  did  not  know  I  could  be  so  easily  content. 
But  for  —  what  I  promised  my  mother,  I  would  go  with 
you  anywhere  to-morrow." 

303 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

"Still  harping  on  that?"  he  said,  with  a  frown.  "Eh, 
well,  we  must  progress  further  with  the  matter." 

"I  am  going  to  Confession  to-morrow  morning,"  she 
said. 

At  first  he  swore,  then  he  laughed:  "I  forbid  you." 

She  shook  her  head:  "Impossible.  In  that  case  I 
should  grow  reckless  and  lose  my  soul  altogether,  and  go 
with  you  without  waiting — " 

"Well,  what  harm?"  he  asked. 

She  thought  to  turn  the  tables  on  him:  "With  you  who 
went  away  and  left  me  for  weeks  without  a  word  ?  Who 
knows?  It  may  happen  again.  Why  did  you  go?" 

"I  don't  know,"  he  answered  truthfully.  "I  did  not 
know  at  the  time.  I  took  the  wrong  turning,  then  my 
feet  moved  of  themselves.  Before  the  morning  I  found 
myself  in  Avignon." 

"If  that  is  the  way  of  it,"  said  she  piteously,  "it  will 
surely  happen  again." 

He  shrugged:  "That's  the  worst  of  my  breed  —  sudden 
flights.  But  if  you  were  to  get  used  to  it?" 

"I  should  always  be  left  forlorn,"  she  sighed. 

"If  you  were  to  come  along?  Straight  into  the  sun,  if 
I  say  the  word?  And  take  your  chance?" 

"As  things  are?"  she  asked,  under  her  breath. 

"As  things  are." 

She  was  like  a  child  feeling  its  way  step  by  step  into  a 
pool  that  may  be  deep:  "Africa  then  to-morrow?  And 
leave  all  these  troubles  behind?"  Then  curiosity  over- 
came her:  "But  tell  me  of  Avignon." 

"Eh,  well,  the  truth  is,  when  I  found  myself  there. 

304 


THE  CHAPEL  OF  THE  MARIES 

everything  was  so  easy  that  I  drifted  into  the  old  habits 
of  life  and  forgot  all  about  you." 

When  she  would  have  murmured,  he  laid  his  hand  on 
her  mouth:  "Yes,  but  you  would  not  stay  forgotten,  so  in 
the  end  I  had  to  come  back  here  —  just  in  time,  it 
seems." 

Well,  this  at  least  was  sweet  to  hear. 

"I  went  at  once  to  my  worthy  aunt  —  by  instinct,  I 
suppose;  and  I  found  the  old  lady  a  good  deal  changed. 
It  may  have  been  conscience  working  in  her  —  I  judged 
it  to  be  that.  She  received  me  not  unkindly  —  gave  me 
board  and  lodging  and  cigarettes  —  bought  me  these 
clothes.  I  do  not  commend  her  taste;  it  is  a  taste  for 
mud  and  rainy  days,  such  as  it  is  said  they  have  in  the 
North  all  the  time.  But  money  —  oh,  no !  She  kept  the 
purse-strings  tight;  and  it  was  too  much  trouble  to  undo 
them.  Besides,  I  had  everything  I  wanted  for  the  moment. 
And  with  the  little  I  had  to  begin  upon,  I  soon  made  more, 
when  I  had  found  my  old  companions  .  .  .  However, 
I  spent  all  that.  I  don't  know  how.  When  I  looked  for 
it,  it  was  always  gone." 

"I  think  the  old  lady's  mind  had  failed  a  little.  She 
seemed  to  have  forgotten  the  cheque  she  gave  me  —  ah, 
you  don't  know  about  that.  Well,  the  tale  will  keep. 
You  shall  chuckle  over  it  when  we  are  married  ...  I 
suggested  to  her  that  she  should  deliver  the  sausage-shop 
into  our  hands,  that  she  ought  not  to  go  on  stuffing  pigs' 
skins  all  her  life,  that  it  was  time  to  retire,  that  we  — " 

"We!"  ejaculated  Madeloun. 

"Ah,  but  I  did  not  intend  that  we  should  continue  the 

305 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

business.  I  thought  that  we  might  sell  out  at  a  profit. 
What  would  you?" 

"And  she?"  asked  the  girl. 

"She?  Eh,  well,  she  has  rente  enough,  aside  from  all 
that,  to  keep  herself  and  a  husband,  if  she  wants  one,  and 
her  priest  as  well  —  which  is  no  small  thing  to  say.  I  tell 
you  she's  comfortable;  and  she  knows  it  —  only  she  has  a 
fear  of  being  skinned  as  she  has  skinned  one  or  two  others, 
whom  I  will  not  mention  ...  To  speak  the  truth,  I 
don't  know  whether  she  would  have  taken  me  in,  even 
for  a  time,  only  she  had  to  think  of  the  neighbours,  and 
there  are  many  in  Avignon  who  remember  me.  Besides, 
I  told  her  of  you,  and  while  she  was  prepared  to  give  you 
a  proper  welcome  — " 

"Oh,  you  talk  —  you  talk!"  said  Madeloun  in  despair. 

" — she  did  not  expect  me  to  stop  long  there.  Not  so 
long  as  I  expected  to  stay  myself.  Eh,  well,  I  was  content 
for  a  time  —  sunning  myself  at  cafes,  like  my  father  be- 
fore me,  and  forgetting  you  —  hein  ?  It  was  a  pleasure  to 
hunt  up  old  Mercadou.  He  had  kept  the  fiddle  I  made 
years  ago.  We  played  tunes  together,  until  we  came  to 
the  end  of  all  we  knew.  Then  he  began  upon  Sedan. 
I  stood  as  much  of  it  as  I  could;  but  when  he  took  to 
marking  out  old  maps  with  rows  of  pins,  it  was  too  much 
for  me.  I  was  sorry,  but  I  had  to  give  him  up.  I  was 
driven  to  Pons  and  the  poodles;  but  they  were  not  as  funny 
as  they  used  to  be  —  by  no  means !  Perhaps  I  was  for- 
getting you  too  hard  —  hein  ?  You  don't  seem  to  enjoy 
this  story,  Leleto,  my  little  hedge- queen?" 

"One  day  I  turned  mad.     I  don't  think  the  sun  was 

306 


THE  CHAPEL  OF  THE  MARIES 

too  hot;  but  I  was  sitting  over  a  cup  of  coffee  with  a 
cigarette  at  Le  Vieux  Moulin  at  Villeneuve  —  I  forget, 
you  would  not  know.  I  was  on  the  edge  of  the  river,  and 
I  had  a  paper,  but  I  could  not  read.  I  stared  at  the 
passing  of  the  Rhone  until  I  came  to  myself  with  a  splash 
and  found  myself  in  it  — " 

With  a  little  cry,  she  caught  his  arm. 

"  Oh,  I'm  safe  enough  and  solid  enough  —  no  ghost. 
I  don't  know  how  I  came  to  jump  in;  but  once  there,  I 
turned  towards  Avignon  against  the  current,  mind  you, 
against  it.  When  I  reached  the  last  broken  pier  of  the 
old  bridge,  I  was  fresh  enough,  but  I  had  a  fancy  to  climb 
it.  Up  I  went  and  along  the  top,  until  I  came  to  the  chapel 
of  St.  Be'ne'zet  —  you  know  ?  Of  course  not.  There  I 
stopped,  and  —  well,  I  am  not  sure  that  it  was  a  prayer 
or  a  vow  or  anything  like  that ;  but  I  said  I  would  go  back 
to  you.  It  was  a  fine  sunset.  It  made  me  think.  But 
the  best  of  the  occasion  was  that  the  concierge  of  the 
bridge  saw  me  from  the  shore  and  came  running  out  in  her 
petticoat  to  ask  how  I  had  got  there  without  a  fee.  I  was 
cold  and  dripping  by  that  time,  and  she  was  hot  with 
rage,  so  what  did  I  do  ?  Eh,  well,  what  would  you  have  ? 
I  caught  her  round  the  waist,  as  far  as  I  could  reach,  and 
I  made  her  dance  a  good  round.  She  scolded  —  she  al- 
most kicked  —  but  we  spun  and  we  hopped  and  we  scraped 
in  the  sunset.  And  when  I  began  to  sing,  she  laughed. 
You  know  the  old  song  ? 

'  Sur  le  pont  d' Avignon 
Tout  le  monde  y  danse  en  ronde.' 

We  were  only  two,  but  we  made  as  much  of  it  as  we  could, 

307 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

for  presently  she  entered  into  the  spirit  of  the  thing,  as 
the  twilight  grew  thick.  How  she  reckoned  afterwards 
with  those  who  may  have  seen  her  from  the  bank,  I  do 
not  know;  but  we  became  good  friends,  and  she  let  me 
slip  through  the  house,  taking  no  fee,  while  her  husband's 
back  was  bent  over  his  soup. 

"And  so  I  went  home  and  found  that  my  aunt  who, 
had  complained  that  same  morning  before  I  went  out, 
had  taken  to  her  bed,  and  was  in  the  hands  of  neighbours. 
There  was  nothing  for  me  to  do,  but  I  hung  about  and 
waited  to  see  when  I  might  be  of  any  use,  and  to  keep 
watch  over  the  priest  ,who  seemed  to  have  a  mighty  interest 
in  the  affair  .  .  .  No,  she  did  not  die,  but  she  kept  me 
from  coming  back  as  soon  as  I  had  planned  —  you  see  ? 
She  had  a  long  illness,  and  as  soon  as  she  was  recovered 
enough  to  lift  her  head,  she  sent  for  me.  'Well,  nephew/ 
says  she,  'I  am  not  going  away  just  yet.  But  let  me  tell 
you  this:  when  the  time  comes  for  my  departure,  it  will 
be  to  your  advantage  to  be  as  far  from  me  as  possible.' 

"'My  dear  aunt,'  says  I,  'my  advantage  was  ever  the 
last  thing  I  sought;  but,  indeed,  it  is  time  I  should  be 
getting  back  to  my  farm  and  my  sweetheart,  for  I  don't 
know  why  I  left  them,  I  am  sure.' 

"At  this  she  actually  smiled:  'Look,  you,  nephew,'  says 
she,  'there's  no  love  lost  between  us;  but  I  am  sorry  for 
your  disappointment  that  I  have  been  so  slow  to  depart.' 

"Here  I  would  have  protested  politely,  as  is  my  way, 
but  she  would  not  be  put  off.  She  fumbled  in  something, 
a  bag,  I  must  suppose,  that  lay  by  her  side  like  a  baby, 
and  she  brought  out  a  louis.  'Here's  for  your  trouble 

308 


THE  CHAPEL  OF  THE  MARIES 

in  waiting,'  says  she,  'and  now  —  adieu.  I'll  send  for 
you  when  I  want  you.' 

"You  may  well  believe  how  I  laughed  at  that.  I  was 
going  to  refuse  the  money;  but  then  I  remembered  some- 
thing and  said  to  her,  'It  will  just  do  to  make  my  peace 
with  Madeloun.  Good-by,  my  aunt.  Long  may  you 
live  and  prosper.  And  thanks  be  to  you  now  for  what 
you  bequeath  me  in  your  will;  and  if  that  is  nothing, 
thanks  for  the  blessings  you  have  conferred  in  the  past.' 
And  so  we  parted,  the  first  day  she  was  allowed  to  sit  up. 
There's  the  tale  .  .  .  and  now  I  make  my  peace  — 
unless  the  thing  be  jolted  out  of  my  pocket  in  the 
fall." 

However,  he  found  what  he  sought :  a  little  box,  stuffed 
with  cotton  wool,  and  in  this  a  small  gold  ring. 

"You  see,"  he  explained,  "we  must  be  married  pres- 
ently, or  it  will  be  the  waste  of  a  good  coin," 

She  suddenly  pushed  him  away  into  the  twilight.  "  Go 
on.  I  will  follow.  I  want  to  pray." 

There  she  knelt  humbly  on  the  steps  before  the  shrine, 
and  prayed  to  the  Holy  Women,  who  in  their  rudderless, 
oarless  boat  had  journeyed,  safe  under  the  guidance  of 
God,  that  they  would  help  her  in  the  devious  way  upon 
which  she  had  entered.  For  that  night  the  thought  of 
the  curse  rested  heavily  upon  her  soul. 

However,  she  joined  Trillon  in  a  more  serene  and  prac- 
tical frame  of  mind,  dwelling  upon  the  need  of  returning 
at  once  to  her  father,  and  getting  him  off  to  the  Cabro 
d'Or,  where  J6use  must  take  them  in  again. 

"But  why?"  said  Trillon.     "It  is  fine  weather.     Give 

309 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

me  a  blanket,  and  I  can  gather  broom  enough  for  a  bed. 
I  will  sleep  in  the  new  house." 

She  protested,  but  he  overbore  objection,  except  that 
when  he  said  they  must  further  thresh  out  their  plans  for 
the  immediate  future,  this  same  night,  she  put  him  off: 
"Wait  till  morning.  We  shall  know  better  then.  One 
cannot  think  in  the  darkness." 


310 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

QUARRY  OR  WELL 

HE  insisted  upon  going  with  her  to  the  church,  the 
following  morning;  and  he  lingered  in  one  of  the  little 
chapels  hewn  out  of  solid  rock  in  the  days  of  Charlemagne, 
and  now  green  and  mouldy  with  age  and  dampness  and 
close  with  the  oppression  that  comes  of  no  sunlight,  while 
Madeloun  went  to  tell  of  her  sins  and  to  ask  how  they 
might  be  mended.  I  am  afraid  his  own  did  not  weigh 
upon  him  unduly. 

But  he  grew  rather  dull  in  the  heavy  atmosphere,  and 
went  presently  to  hang  about  the  steps,  until  Madeloun 
and  Father  Gougoulin  came  out  together.  The  girl's 
delicious  beauty  was  stained  with  tears,  but  she  smiled 
at  him  faintly. 

The  priest  was  prepared  to  encounter  him,  and  said 
no  more  than:  "We  thought  we  had  seen  the  last  of  you." 

"Hoped,  you  mean,"  interjected  Trillon.     "Hoped." 

"Eh,  well,"  said  the  priest,  "for  the  sake  of  this  poor 
child  —  hoped." 

Madeloun  looked  up  with  quick  protest;  but  the  words 
did  not  pass  her  lips,  for  Trillon  was  speaking  more 

3" 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

fiercely  than  she  had  ever  before  heard  him  speak:  "I 
give  you  one  week,  Father  Gougoulin.  If  you  do  not  call 
the  banns  in  church  next  Sunday,  we  go  to  Aries  on  the 
Monday,  and  find  another  priest  to  do  that  service  for  us; 
and  if  you  make  any  difficulties  —  God  help  us!  we  shall 
do  without  the  Church  altogether." 

"And  Madeloun,"  said  the  cure",  showing  no  anger, 
but  speaking  with  a  certain  soft  insistence,  "now  that 
Madeloun  is  newly  shriven  of  her  sins,  you  would  imme- 
diately burden  her  soul  with  more?" 

"I  take  them  upon  myself,"  answered  Trillon. 

"You  cannot  —  you  are  no  scapegoat,"  said  the  priest. 
"  But  I  will  not  be  threatened.  And  I  warn  you.  Made- 
loun" —  he  turned  to  the  girl  —  "you  are  going  back  to 
your  brother's  house  to-day." 

She  hung  her  head  without  speaking. 

"If  at  the  end  of  three  days  you  still  persist  in  your 
folly,  and  have  not  returned  —  well,  I  make  no  threats." 
Father  Gougoulin  shut  his  lips  closely  and  turned  away, 
very  grim. 

Madeloun  was  pale  with  a  deadly  fear,  as  the  two  faced 
the  village  street  together;  but  Trillon  was  more  himself 
than  usual.  He  met  the  gossiping  women  as  if  he  enjoyed 
crossing  words  with  them,  and  he  told  so  many  lies  during 
this  short  progress  that  Madeloun  wondered  if  he  had 
lost  his  senses  altogether. 

"Why  did  you  make  everything  out  so  splendid?"  she 
whispered,  as  they  went  through  the  Porte  Horloge  to- 
gether. "They  will  think  you  own  the  world." 

"And  so  I  mean  them  to  think,"  said  he,  thrusting  back, 

312 


QUARRY  OR  WELL 

as  if  it  pained  him,  the  bandage  made  of  her  apron,  that 
he  still  wore.  "And  in  a  sense,  it  is  true  —  it  shall  be 
true.  I  have  the  luck.  Every  word  that  I  have  said  this 
morning  helps  to  make  it  true  —  each  is  a  fetter  linking 
the  facts  more  closely  to  our  lives." 

"But  the  great  fact  is,"  said  she  unhappily,  "that  we 
have  nothing  and  shall  have  nothing  to  the  end  of  our 
days." 

"Tut,  tut,"  was  his  answer.  "I  shall  begin  the  well 
to-day.  Where  there  was  a  windmill  there  must  have 
been  a  well." 

"But  if  not?"  she  persisted. 

He  made  a  gesture  indicating  impatience  of  all  women 
who  would  meddle  with  business. 

Then  she  tried,  as  girls  will,  to  be  reasonable.  "You 
see  we  cannot  go  on  living  in  the  windmill,  or  you  sleeping 
on  the  floor  of  the  new  house.  Consider  how  the  village 
would  talk.  My  father  may  go  back  to  the  Cabro  d'Or 
-I  will  not.  And  after  Confession  this  morning,  I  felt 
how  happy  a  thing  it  is  not  to  be  wicked  any  more.  I 
shall  go  back  to  the  convent.  Three  days  you  have  — 
three,  he  said.  And  you  are  face  to  face  with  the  situa- 
tion. You  cannot  wriggle  away"  (yes,  she  used  the 
word)  "this  time.  It  means  breaking  with  me  forever. 
And  that  is  all." 

He  was  silent  for  a  time,  kicking  the  little  stones  out  of 
his  path,  not  viciously,  but  thoughtfully,  and  all  the  while 
whistling  in  an  undertone.  At  last  he  spoke  up:  "There 
is  reason  in  what  you  say.  I'm  a  roving  vagabond,  not  fit 
to  have  the  care  of  a  girl  like  you.  But  this  I  will  promise. 

313 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

Look  you,  give  me  the  three  days  to  find  my  well.  If  at 
the  end  of  that  time  I  have  failed  —  if  even  you  say  I  have 
failed,  though  I  do  not  admit  it  —  I  will  give  up  all  my 
ideas  and  get  work  in  the  quarry." 

"Would  you?"  she  cried  all  in  a  glow.  "Oh,  would 
you?" 

But  he  was  not  transported  by  the  scheme.  "  We  could 
still  live  at  the  farm,"  said  he,  and  could  not  resist  adding, 
"until  something  better  offers.  And  then,  when  even 
the  curd  admits  that  I  am  earning  my  own  livelihood, 
perhaps  — " 

But  here  she  had  doubts:  "You  do  not  know  him." 

"At  least,  this  is  a  beginning,"  he  continued  patiently; 
and  so  much  she  had  to  admit.  Poor  child!  She  felt 
dimly  that  it's  an  ill  world  for  a  woman  who  may  not 
trust  utterly  the  wisdom  of  her  man. 

But  his  zeal  was  amazing,  she  confessed  to  herself. 
No  sooner  had  they  reached  the  windmill  than  he  imparted 
to  Auzias  the  information  that  he  was  about  to  dig  a  well, 
and  invited  his  assistance  in  carrying  off  the  rubble. 
Notwithstanding  his  bandaged  head,  his  bruises  and  his 
stiffness,  he  flung  aside  his  coat,  found  pick- and  spade, 
and  looked  about  him  for  a  suitable  centre  of  operations. 

While  he  still  hesitated,  she  asked:  "But  how  will  you 
know  where  the  well  was?" 

Her  words  gave  him  his  idea,  and  he  advanced  upon 
her,  and  put  a  franc  into  her  hand.  "Close  your  eyes," 
he  commanded,  and  whirled  her  three  times.  "Now 
throw." 

She  protested  that  it  was  folly,  but  he  drowned  her 

3*4 


QUARRY  OR  WELL 

words  in  kisses;  and  in  the  end,  to  stay  his  importunity, 
she  sent  the  coin  in  a  feeble  flight. 

"I  have  heard  somewhere  or  dreamed,"  said  Trillon, 
before  he  released  her,  "that  silver  will  find  water.  We 
can  but  try.  And  I  know  no  other  way."  All  the  while 
his  eyes  were  searching  for  the  sparkle  of  the  coin  in  the 
sun;  but  there  were  many  crystalline  pebbles  and  the  task 
was  long.  It  was  old  Auzias  who  at  last  reached  out  a 
tremulous  stick,  and  pointed  to  a  little  hollow  not  far  from 
where  he  sat.  And  this  proved  to  be  the  treasure  trove. 

With  a  mighty  exclamation,  Trillon  spat  on  his  hands 
and  rubbed  them  together,  leaped  into  the  shallow  pit 
and  tossed  up  a  thin  spadeful  of  earth. 

As  it  happened,  his  luck  had  pointed  to  one  of  the  few 
places  on  his  estate  where  it  was  possible  to  dig  for  any 
considerable  depth.  As  the  morning  advanced,  he  stood 
in  a  hole  of  his  own  making,  though  he  often  had  to  fall 
to  with  the  pick,  and  then  stoop  and  lift  out  with  his 
hands  rocks  that  taxed  all  his  strength.  The  old  man, 
under  directions,  loaded  the  mule  with  panniers  and  car- 
ried away  the  earth  and  stones,  dumping  them  in  a  spot 
where  Trillon  said  they  would  yet  smell  bean  blossoms, 
after  the  rock  had  had  a  good  coating  of  earth.  In  the 
intervals,  which  were  long  enough,  since  only  one  man, 
was  digging,  the  helper  rested  near  the  pit  and  amused 
himself  with  looking  over  such  small  stones  and  pebbles 
as  came  up. 

The  two  were  often  joined  by  Madeloun,  who  brought 
her  sewing,  while  she  was  preparing  the  dinner.  When 
at  last  the  sun  stood  in  the  meridian,  and  she  came  to  call 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

them  to  the  meal,  Trillon  climbed  out  of  his  hole  with 
alacrity,  wiping  the  sweat  from  his  forehead,  and  drawing 
long  breaths  of  relief.  He  pointed  with  no  small  pride  to 
his  handiwork  —  a  neat  circular  pit,  though  still  some- 
what shallow. 

"But  if  there  is  no  water?"  Madeloun  could  not  for- 
bear asking. 

"There  will  be  water,"  he  asserted  with  confidence. 
"Look"  —  he  bent  over  a  little  heap  of  stuff  that  the  old 
man  had  collected  —  "  here  are  fragments  of  jugs  that 
have  been  dropped  in  and  broken,  ages  and  ages 
ago." 

I  am  not  disposed  to  say  how  an  archaeologist  would 
have  judged  this  ingenious  explanation  of  the  Roman  or 
Greek  potsherds  in  the  hands  of  Auzias;  but  it  made 
Madeloun  laugh,  and  she  was  content  to  be  danced  away 
to  the  al  fresco  dinner,  protesting  all  the  while  that  she 
was  no  cook,  and  she  knew  it  could  not  be  good. 

However,  Trillon  was  polite  about  the  results;  and  the 
three  of  them  were  merry  indeed,  talking  about  the  days 
to  come  when  they  could  look  into  their  cool  dark  pit  and 
draw  up  thence  refreshment  that  would  make  the  arid 
land  bloom  like  a  rose.  Madeloun  for  once  proved  a 
successful  castle-builder,  and  even  the  old  man  was  led 
away  into  the  land  of  dreams. 

After  dinner,  Trillon  gave  himself  up  to  a  cigarette,  for 
just  the  length  of  time  that  Madeloun  spent  in  washing 
her  few  dishes ;  and  in  this  brief  interval,  as  he  lay  on  the 
grass  in  the  shade  of  the  windmill,  he  confided  to  her  that 
now  he  had  had  a  foretaste  of  the  cooking  of  married  life, 

316 


QUARRY  OR  WELL 

he  could  safely  say  that  it  overbalanced  freedom  on  the 
road  and  pick-up- what-you-can-get. 

This  made  her  so  happy  that  when  he  resumed  his 
labours,  she  took  her  sewing  as  near  as  she  might  for  the 
flying  earth,  and  beguiled  the  hours  with  snatches  of 
mountain  song  to  make  the  work  go  faster. 

And  fast  it  went,  for  Trillon  bent  and  heaved  with  a 
will;  and  Auzias  played  always  with  his  shards,  until  he 
had  two  panniers  full,  and  then  he  conveyed  them  off  and 
dumped  with  all  the  briskness  in  the  world. 

Towards  sunset,  Madeloun  said:  "It  looks  to  me  as  if 
all  the  people  from  all  the  country  round  had  come  to 
this  one  spot  to  break  their  pitchers." 

"Cacaraca!"  crowed  Trillon.  "I  have  struck  a  piece 
of  wall." 

Then  she  folded  her  sewing  and  came  to  look;  and 
Auzias  tottered  up,  and  the  three  of  them  bent  close,  but 
could  make  out  nothing  but  an  indeterminate  fragment  of 
masonry.  Work  as  he  would,  Trillon  could  discover 
little  more  that  night.  When  at  supper-time  he  flung 
himself  on  the  turf,  he  was  conscious  of  strong  virtue, 
feeling  that  if  ever  man  in  the  world  had  earned  his  salad 
and  cheese,  he  was  that  man. 


3*7 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

THE  EMPEROR  OF  THE  EAST 

IT  was  the  most  curious  well  ever  devised  by  the  mind 
of  man.  By  dinner-time  the  second  day,  Trillon  was  so 
full  of  the  curiosities  of  its  construction  that  he  did  not 
observe  the  sweetness  of  the  soup  or  the  smokiness  of  the 
meat,  or  even  give  full  attention  to  Madeloun's  apologies. 
Like  many  young  cooks,  she  was  having  the  experience  in 
which  the  summer  of  fulfilment  does  not  follow  close  upon 
the  spring  of  promise. 

But  Trillon  mumbled  his  answers  and  comments;  and 
developed  a  permanent  straight  line  between  his  brows. 
His  well  appeared  to  him  to  be  a  labyrinth. 

At  sunset,  in  a  sort  of  despair,  he  ceased  digging,  and 
announced  that  he  was  going  up  to  the  village  to  try  his 
luck  at  a  cafe".  He  lighted  his  pipe  and  endeavoured  to 
return  to  his  usual  serenity;  but  Madeloun  could  see  that 
he  was  not  only  troubled  with  a  sense  of  failure,  but 
humiliated  by  the  thought  of  working  in  the  quarry 
among  the  men  to  whom  he  had  before,  in  a  friendly  way, 
considered  himself  superior.  Accordingly,  when  he  tried 
to  jest  about  finding  his  luck,  she  understood  the  phrase 


THE  EMPEROR  OF  THE  EAST 

to  mean  either  that  he  would  drink  himself  into  a  state  of 
forgetfulness,  or  would  gamble  with  the  little  money  that 
he  had.  How  else  indeed  might  the  words  be  interpreted  ? 

It  was  pride  that  made  her  ask:  "You  will  not  go  to  the 
Cabro  d'Or?" 

No,  he  admitted,  with  some  degree  of  shamefacedness, 
that  his  choice  was  the  humbler  precinct,  the  Emperor  0} 
the  East. 

So  Madeloun  and  the  old  man  sat  looking  over  the 
plain  until  the  twilight  joined  the  rising  mists  and  made 
dense  blackness,  and  then  went  to  bed  very  sadly. 

And  Trillon,  although  shorn  of  his  last  hope,  perhaps 
because  in  his  own  mind  he  admitted  this  painful  fact, 
entered  the  Emperor  0}  the  East  with  an  air  rather  more 
jaunty  than  usual. 

He  was  surprised  to  see  a  large  company  assembled 
about  the  one  long  table,  until  he  perceived  the  cause  of 
this  gathering  in  calico  curtains  across  a  corner  of  the 
room.  Evidently,  there  was  going  to  be  a  puppet-show 
for  the  delectation  of  the  patrons  of  the  cafe.  The  Cabro 
d'Or  would  be  doing  poor  business  this  night. 

Trillon  was  unexpected,  but  he  was  not  slow  to  see  that 
his  arrival  created  more  than  surprise.  There  was  a 
distinct  exchange  of  looks  among  the  group,  which  he 
interpreted  to  mean:  "Here's  the  very  man  we  have  been 
talking  about  —  now  for  our  chance!" 

Seeing  that  the  one  table  was  nearly  full,  and  that 
nobody  moved  to  make  room  for  him,  Trillon,  with  a 
brief  general  salutation,  crossed  over  and  took  his  place 
alone  at  a  small  table.  He  felt  that  he  was  in  for  some- 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

thing  —  he  could  not  tell  what  or  why  —  and  he  rather 
enjoyed  the  prospect.  He  looked  for  Ramoun  or  Peire 
as  the  probable  root  of  the  trouble,  but  neither  was  present. 

He  ordered  an  absinthe,  though  he  was  not  given  to 
the  liquor,  and  indicated,  as  well  as  might  be  done  by 
expression  alone,  that  the  company  was  to  come  on  when 
it  liked. 

During  a  brief  silence,  he  heard  the  drum  of  the  puppet- 
show  man  outside,  up  and  down  the  village  street,  trying 
to  beat  in  a  larger  audience.  But  the  company  was  not 
over-slow  to  open  fire. 

It  was  Alari  of  Montpaon,  a  brigand-type  of  man,  with 
a  felt  hat  cocked  over  one  eye,  and  a  fiercely-pointed 
moustache,  who  got  in  the  first  shot:  "And  how  goes  the 
mas?" 

"How  goes  yours?"  answered  Trillon  politely.  "Do 
you  look  for  crops  now?  It  is  out  of  season.  Ask  me 
later." 

"Come,  come,"  said  a  wide-mouthed  village  youth,  a 
wastrel  and  a  good-for-nothing,  nudging  Alari  in  the  ribs. 
"Anyone  can  see  you  are  from  the  country.  The  olive- 
trees  in  the  Pit  of  Artaban  are  breaking  their  branches, 
and  the  owner  of  them  is  contemplating  purchase  of  the 
chateau." 

At  this,  there  was  a  roar,  for  the  nominal  prince  of 
Castelar  is  a  notorious  bankrupt;  but  Trillon  kept  coun- 
tenance and  sipped  absinthe  as  if  his  thoughts  were  of 
the  pleasantest. 

"I  hear,"  said  a  grizzled  little  old  shepherd,  "that  you 
are  digging  a  well?" 

320 


THE  EMPEROR  OF  THE  EAST 

In  spite  of  himself,  Trillon  laughed,  remembering  the 
extraordinary  underground  structure  that  for  two  days 
he  had  been  trying  to  dignify  with  this  name.  "Yes," 
said  he,  "and  any  fellow  that  comes  and  helps  shall  have 
free  use  of  the  water." 

"How  deep  have  you  gone?"  asked  ruddy  Jan  of  the 
village  shop. 

"It's  as  dry  as  the  soul  of  Judas!"  interrupted  a 
pert  young  shepherd,  Charloun  of  Masblanc.  "I  passed 
this  morning  early  before  the  menage  was  stirring." 

The  words  were  innocent,  but  the  insult  conveyed  by 
the  tone  was  not  lost  upon  the  community.  They  rocked 
with  laughter  at  the  thrust,  and  one  enthusiastically  patted 
Charloun  on  the  back. 

"Deep  enough,"  said  Trillon  composedly,  though  his 
face  shot  red,  "quite  deep  enough  to  make  a  comfortable 
grave  for  any  man  that  I  drop  into  it;  and  with  plenty  of 
boulders  to  jam  him  down  until  Doomsday." 

At  this,  amusement  was  turned  into  a  sudden  little  hiss 
of  amazement  and  anger;  and  one  or  two  threats  were 
uttered. 

"Not  deep  enough  for  Peire,"  said  Savie",  Ramoun's 
father. 

"Perhaps  not,  but  deep  enough  for  you  and  your  son 
together,"  said  Trillon,  sipping. 

Savie  got  to  his  feet,  knocking  his  chair  over,  stuttering 
with  rage  and  pointing  a  finger. 

"Eh,  well,"  said  Trillon,  "it's  a  pity  your  son  is  not 
here  himself — or  Peire,  since  you  have  mentioned  him.  I 
came  to  have  a  quiet  evening,  not  to  quarrel  with  old  men." 

321 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

It  seemed  then  that  there  were  many  willing  substitutes 
for  the  missing  youths,  and  a  general  fight  was  imminent, 
in  which  the  landlord's  chairs  and  bottles  might  have 
fared  ill.  But  at  the  critical  moment,  Trillon's  luck  — 
or  was  it  chance  ?  —  brought  a  diversion  by  the  entrance 
of  a  man  who  was  strange  to  Castelar;  and  he  immediately 
became  the  focus  of  all  eyes.  For  a  moment  there  was  a 
tacit  proclamation  of  truce,  seats  and  drinks  were  re- 
sumed; but  the  trouble  went  on  boiling  below,  as  was 
clear  from  looks  and  mutters. 

The  last  visitor  peered  about  the  room  with  a  short- 
sighted glance;  then  crossed  over  and  sat  down  at  the 
table  where  Trillon  was  —  a  most  signal  instance,  the 
latter  said  afterwards,  of  his  phenomenal  luck.  By 
the  time  the  newcomer  had  ordered  coffee,  the  puppet- 
man  had  returned,  laid  aside  his  drum,  and  gone  behind 
the  curtain  to  make  ready  his  creatures. 

"Ah  —  ah,"  said  the  stranger,  rubbing  his  hands  to- 
gether and  beaming:  "It  is  the  great  drama  of  Pyrame 
et  Thisbe,  is  it  not?" 

Trillon  smiled  and  shrugged  his  ignorance. 

"I  saw  the  notice  outside.  I  am  a  great  lover  of  folk- 
lore, monsieur — " 

"Folk-lore?"  asked  Trillon.  "What  is  that?"  And 
when  he  had  the  explanation,  he  added:  "I  see.  You 
are  one  of  those  people  who  wander  about  the  country 
taking  an  interest  in  old  things." 

At  first  the  stranger  looked  offended,  for  though  he  was 
shabbily  dressed,  his  well-worn  clothes  had  about  them 
an  air  of  position  if  not  of  prosperity;  then  he  laughed 

322 


THE  EMPEROR  OF  THE  EAST 

and  said:  "You  are  right.  I  am  a  lover  of  folk-lore  and 
antiquities." 

"And  that  is  why  you  have  come  to  the  puppet-show?" 
asked  Trillon  idly. 

"That  is  why.     It  is  a  relic  —  a  relic  of  the  old  time." 

Now  what  made  Trillon  do  it?  He  deliberately 
fumbled  in  his  coat-pockets  and  brought  out  a  handful 
of  potsherds  and  odds  and  ends  that  he  had  put  there  for 
a  second  look.  He  laid  them  in  a  little  heap  before  the 
old  man.  "Relics?"  said  he.  "And  are  these  relics  too, 
or  what  ?"  Why  did  he  do  it,  can  you  answer  me? 

"Ah  —  ah,"  said  the  antiquary,  and  pushed  away  his 
cup.  His  fingers  began  to  tremble  with  eagerness. 
"  Arabic  —  Arabic  —  period  of  —  hah !  Can  it  be  Phoeni- 
cian ?  No  —  yes  —  no,  they  are  unheard  of  in  these 
parts.  Roman  —  Roman  —  yes,  Roman  —  Etruscan  — 
—  Samian  —  prehistoric  —  yes,  yes.  Greek  —  Greek  — 
archaic  that  —  might  have  been  brought  by  the  Phocions 
when  they  landed  at  Marseilles.  Well  —  well  —  where 
did  you  find  them  all?" 

"In  my  well,"  says  Trillon,  "a  well  that  I  am  digging." 

"Good,"  answered  the  old  man.  "I  buy  them.  And 
have  you  any  more?" 

"Buy  them?"  Trillon  laughed.  "I  will  give  you  them 
by  the  cart-load  if  you  will  take  them  away  — " 

"My  son"  —  the  stranger  held  up  a  warning  finger  — 
"let  me  speak  you  a  word  of  advice.  Never  give  away 
antiquities,  however  worthless  they  seem.  I  say  it  to  my 
own  loss;  but  I  will  pay  you  a  fair  price  for  the  lot." 

"What  do  you  call  a  fair  price?"  asked  Trillon.     "It's 

323 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

an  intolerable  nuisance  digging  them    up;    they    come 
hard." 

But  now  the  stranger  lifted  a  forefinger  in  sign  that  the 
miniature  curtain  had  been  raised;  and  there  was  silence 
throughout  the  room  while  the  little  play  went  on. 

Trillon  knew  it  by  heart,  and  all  the  while  that  the  lovers 
squeaked  and  fainted  and  ran,  and  the  father  roared,  and 
the  mischief-makers  put  their  heads  together,  he  was 
deep  in  a  muse,  forgetting  even  to  smoke. 

But  the  stranger  sat  intent  and  applauded  as  heartily 
as  the  wildest  youth  in  the  place.  And  they,  those  brown 
children  of  the  sun,  who  a  few  moments  before  had  been 
ready  to  embark  upon  a  mortal  fray  for  almost  no  cause  had 
now  forgotten  their  wrath  in  the  pathos  of  the  touching 
death  of  Pyrame  over  his  sweetheart's  hat,  and  of  the  young 
woman's  speedy  demise  upon  her  swain;  and  yet  scarcely 
were  the  tears  winked  away  from  their  eyes  before  they 
were  roaring  at  the  broad  humour  of  the  interlude. 

"Look  ye"  —  the  stranger  again  wagged  a  finger  at 
Trillon  when  the  curtain  had  dropped  —  "I  will  examine 
what  you  have  found,  and  I  will  pay  you  enough  for  your 
trouble." 

"I  wish,"  said  Trillon,  "you  would  come  and  tell  me 
what  kind  of  well  it  is  that  I  have  struck." 

"Eh,  what?"  said  the  antiquary.     "What's  that?"  - 
and  demanded  an  explanation. 

When  he  had  it,  he  said:  "That's  no  well.  I  must  look 
into  the  question.  Eh,  eh,  this  is  not  my  first  visit  to 
Castelar.  You  would  not  know,  but  it  is  I  have  written 
a  pamphlet  on  the  Roman  monument  that  is  falsely  sup- 

324 


THE  EMPEROR  OF  THE  EAST 

posed  to  represent  the  two  Maries,  and  another  on  the 
Celtic  camp  on  the  top  of  Costa  Pera.  Ah,  I  know  the 
country  for  miles  around;  but  this  you  tell  me  is  more 
remarkable  .  .  .  Plutarch,  it  is,  I  believe,  who  has  a  line 
or  two  ...  I  shall  not  sleep  a  wink  to-night  —  not  until 
I  know  what  the  thing  is  .  .  ." 

"In  that  case,"  said  Trillon,  "you'd  better  come  home 
with  me  and  have  a  look  at  it  by  lantern-light.  I  will 
bring  you  back  again  to  the  Cabro  d'Or." 

"Done,"  said  the  stranger,  and  rose  so  abruptly  that  he 
all  but  knocked  his  chair  over. 

"But,  then,"  asked  Trillon,  disclaiming  all  eagerness, 
"what  of  Pyrame  et  Thisbe?" 

"Pyrame  et  Thisbe!  What  are  they  to  the  thing  of 
which  you  tell  me,  if  it  should  prove  .  .  .  But  I  must  go 
softly.  I  see  that  you  have  nothing  of  the  zeal  of  the 
antiquary,  monsieur." 

"No,"  said  Trillon,  "but  it's  time  I  were  getting  back 
to  the  farm." 

"The  farm?"  was  the  eager  query.  "And  who  owns 
it?" 

"Myself,"  says  Trillon.  "I  can  show  you  the  papers; 
but  once  I  have  found  water,  I  am  in  no  haste  to  sell 
it." 

The  stranger  dropped  a  little  pile  of  coppers  on  the 
table  for  the  showman,  and  leaving  his  coffee  half  finished 
walked  hastily  to  the  door. 

Trillon  followed,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  perfectly  at 
his  ease  again,  and  confident  in  his  unreasonable  good 
fortune.  He  took  a  long  time  over  the  payment  for  his 

325 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

absinthe;  and  when  the  feat  was  accomplished,  as  if 
forgetful  of  the  impatient  presence  at  the  door,  he  faced 
the  company  at  the  long  table:  "If  any  man  here  has  a 
word  to  say  to  me  before  I  go,  or  wishes  to  resume  the 
discussion  of  a  few  moments  since — " 

But  he  was  not  allowed  to  finish,  for  the  curtain  went 
up  again,  and  simultaneously  his  new  acquaintance  ad- 
vanced and  took  him  by  the  arm.  Whereupon,  with  a 
prodigious  wink  that  included  the  entire  company,  show- 
man, and  puppets,  and  all,  he  vanished. 

But  so  busy  had  been  the  eyes  and  ears  of  the  audience 
with  what  had  been  gleaned  of  the  conversation  over  the 
"relics,"  that  an  excited  buzz  followed  upon  the  departure 
of  the  two  men,  and  seriously  hampered  for  a  while  the 
progress  of  the  play. 

However,  in  the  end,  the  boards  resumed  their  sway 
over  the  emotions,  and  the  men  of  Castelar  returned  to 
the  diminutive  sorrows  and  joys  that  they  blended  with 
their  wine  and  bitters,  and  never  dreamed  of  the  little 
drama  that  they  might  have  witnessed  had  they  gone 
forth  and  followed  the  trail  to  the  Pit  of  Artaban. 

Madeloun,  too,  and  her  father  missed  the  scene  with 
the  flickering  lantern,  the  excited  whispers  and  comments 
that  went  on  under  the  broken  skin  of  the  earth.  For 
hours,  the  will-o'-the-wisp  light  wandered  about  the  Pit 
before  it  entered  upon  the  track  to  Castelar;  and  after 
a  long  interval  returned  hence  with  a  wilful  flare,  an 
uncertainty  of  progress  that  suggested  a  high  degree  of 
inebriation  on  the  part  of  its  bearer. 

But  Trillon  was  not  drunk;  he  was  merely  joyful;  and 

326 


THE  EMPEROR  OF  THE  EAST 

he  signified  the  fact  by  an  improvised  lantern  war-dance 
on  the  plateau  above  the  Pit.  And  when  he  was  exhausted, 
he  flung  himself  upon  the  turf  with  a  laugh  smothered, 
but  long  and  incessant:  "My  luck!"  he  gasped.  "Oh 
my  luck!  Bon-dtiu,  it  beats  the  devil!" 


327 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

THE  CONQUEST  OF  THE  CHURCH 

"!T  is  the  third  day,"  said  Trillon,  with  glee,  when  he 
came  down  from  the  unfinished  house  to  get  his  black 
coffee  from  Madeloun.  "And  what  will  Father  Gou- 
goulin  do?" 

"Have  you  no  fear?"  she  asked,  wondering  at  his 
change  of  mood.  What  had  happened  at  the  cafe*  the 
night  before?  Ah,  doubtless  he  had  been  gambling  and 
had  won  again.  She  did  not  like  the  thought. 

When  he  had  finished  his  breakfast,  he  sat  so  long  over 
his  pipe  that  she  felt  bound  to  remind  him  of  the 
state  in  which  he  had  left  his  prospective  well. 

"To-day,"  said  he,  "I  do  not  work.  I  make  holiday. 
A  man  cannot  toil  every  hour  of  the  year." 

She  looked  at  him  with  some  scorn:  "You  think  you 
work  so  hard?" 

He  shrugged:  "Eh,  well,  I  appeal  to  you.  The  last 
two  days  —  and  for  a  man  who  was  badly  shaken  too  ..." 

"But  if  you  bring  it  to  no  ending?"  she  pleaded. 

"I  have  brought  it  far  enough"  —  his  yellow  eyes 
gleamed  upon  her  with  the  joy  of  teasing. 

328 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  THE  CHURCH 

"  But  if  you  do  not  find  the  water  —  how  will  you  make 
the  farm  pay?"  she  asked. 

"I  can  make  it  pay,"  he  asserted  with  confidence;  but, 
although  she  waited,  he  would  not  deign  to  explain  further. 

She  turned  away,  thoroughly  out  of  patience:  "Then, 
to-morrow  you  go  to  the  quarry  of  Sant  Pau  —  remem- 
ber; and  we  must  make  the  best  of  the  situation." 

"To-morrow  —  to-morrow,"  he  jeered  at  her,  "we  may 
be  at  the  end  of  this  world,  or  out  of  it  altogether.  Mean- 
while, there  is  to-day  —  a  whole  long  day  in  which  to  be 
idle  —  lazy  — " 

"And  the  cure"?"  she  asked,  looking  over  her  shoulder 
at  him. 

He  sat  up  then  and  faced  her  seriously:  "That  reminds 
me.  I  am  in  a  position  now  to  treat  with  your  good  old 
man.  Are  you  going  up  to  the  village?" 

"No,"  she  answered,  "but  father  will  be  at  the  wedding 
later"  —  he  remembered  then  that  he  had  heard  what 
country  lass  and  lad  were  going  to  slip  into  the  noose, 
this  day. 

"Eh,  well,"  said  he,  "it's  no  matter.  I  can  see  him 
this  afternoon,  for  I'm  going  up  myself,  having  many 
affairs  on  my  hands." 

"So  you're  not  going  to  work  here  at  all?" 

"That  is  it,"  said  he. 

She  flung  down  her  sewing  with  a  passionate  gesture: 
"Then  why  should  I?" 

He  seemed  to  consider  the  question  freshly:  "After  all, 
why  should  you  ?  Leave  it  and  go  dance  at  the  wedding. 
You'll  be  dancing  at  your  own  shortly." 

329 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

She  shook  her  head:  "I'm  not  so  sure  of  that.  You 
with  your  talking  and  your  mysteries!  How  do  I  know 
what  you  are  about?  Will  you  tell  me?"  There  was  a 
threat  in  her  tone. 

He  drew  his  eyelids  together  as  he  said:  "No,  not  until 
to-night.  Women  cannot  keep  a  secret.  What  of  it?" 

"What  of  it?"  —  she  got  to  her  feet,  in  a  piteous  sort  of 
helpless  anger.  "Eh,  well,  I  shall  leave  my  work  and  go 
dance  at  Eisabeu's  wedding  —  and  that's  what  of  it!" 

"Do,"  said  he  serenely,  "and  joy  go  with  you." 

"And  Peire  will  be  there  —  and  Ramoun  too,"  —  she 
tried  to  taunt  him  into  jealousy. 

"The  better  for  you,"  was  all  he  said.  "Go  and  have 
your  little  game  —  it  may  be  your  last.  When  it  troubles 
me,  I  will  interfere  —  not  before." 

Their  glances  crossed  and  his  were  victorious. 

But  she  stubbornly  folded  up  her  sewing  and  put  it 
away,  and  going  into  the  windmill  began  to  look  out  her 
finery. 

Whatever  the  business  was  that  called  Trillon  to  Cas- 
telar,  it  did  not  seem  urgent,  for  that  worthy  man  spent 
the  morning  drifting  about  his  land  and  smoking  one 
cigarette  after  another. 

When,  well  after  dinner,  he  saw  Madeloun  and  her 
father  emerge  in  their  best  splendour,  he  deigned  to  come 
near  and  look  at  them  with  a  critical  eye. 

When  Auzias  asked  whether  he  had  not  the  intention 
of  going  with  them,  he  waved  his  regret  in  the  air,  and 
said  that  he  must  stay  and  look  after  the  animals.  And 
he  had  already  spent  half  the  day  and  more  at  his  hopeless 

330 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  THE  CHURCH 

well,  as  if  he  thought  that  mere  staring  would  conjure  up 
the  means  to  enrich  the  land ! 

So  it  came  about  that  the  betrothed  parted  with  coolness 
(though  Trillon's  laugh  when  he  was  alone  did  not  betray 
much  vexation  on  the  point) ;  and  they  did  not  meet  again 
until  the  stars  were  sown  thickly. 

It  seems  that  after  all  Trillon  had  a  busy  afternoon, 
with  some  going  back  and  forth  between  the  village  and 
the  mas\  and  I  can  assure  you  that  he  was  not  alone, 
though  the  name  of  his  visitor  is  too  eminent  to  be  touched 
lightly,  and  therefore  I  omit  it  altogether.  If  you  desire 
further  information,  look  up  in  the  index  of  the  Revue  des 
Savants,  a  series  of  articles  on  "The  Site  of  Glanum  and 
its  Treasures."  You  will  be  edified. 

Near  dusk  Trillon  was  again  alone,  and  remembered 
that  he  wras  hungry,  and  that  nobody  had  cooked  him  a 
supper.  He  foraged  among  his  stores;  and  was  stopped 
half-way  through  a  sardine  by  the  memory  that  he  had 
yet  to  deal  with  Father  Gougoulin. 

He  ate  the  faster  in  order  to  hasten  his  going  to  the 
village,  but  while  he  was  in  the  act  of  leaping  over 
his  wall,  he  encountered  the  very  individual  that  he 
sought,  climbing  from  the  road  below. 

"Eh,  well,"  began  the  cure",  without  prelude,  "the  three 
days  are  up,  you  know,  and  this  mad  situation  must  come 
to  an  end." 

"It  has  come  to  an  end,  father,"  observed  Trillon, 
suppressing  his  glee. 

"What  end?" 

"The  natural  end.     I  have  fulfilled  your  all  but  im- 

331 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

possible  condition.  I  have  made  the  MAS  ARTABAN 
pay." 

"How  so?"    The  priest  was  clearly  startled. 

Trillon  drew  something  out  of  his  pocket;  "Wait  a 
moment.  I  will  show  you."  He  fumbled  with  a  small 
case  or  book,  and  dropped  it  carelessly  on  the  ground 
when  he  had  drawn  forth  a  bit  of  paper.  Then  he  struck 
a  match  on  his  boot,  and  unfolding  the  paper  with  his 
fingers,  turned  the  tiny  flame  upon  it.  "Read,"  said  he 
quietly. 

In  the  sudden  blaze  of  light,  the  priest  caught  the  words 
jour  thousand;  then  Trillon  blew  upon  the  match. 

"Four  thousand  what?"  gasped  the  old  man.  "From 
whom  ?  For  what  ?  Monsieur,  you  shall  account  to  me ! " 

"Soon  done,"  laughed  Trillon.  "I  have  sold  the  mas. 
Created  it  first,  mind  you  —  you  must  grant  me  that;  for 
the  name  stands  so  in  the  deed  of  sale.  It  is  mine  no 
longer.  Instead,  I  have  this  little  paper." 

"What  fool—?"  thundered  the  priest. 

"You  may  well  ask.  This  time  it  is  not  myself.  But 
there  is  no  need  of  haste.  You  will  know  soon,  and  soon 
enough.  It  will  be  all  over  the  village  presently.  Does 
your  Reverence  still  withhold  your  gracious  permission 
for  the  banns?" 

"Wait  —  wait  — "  muttered  the  curd. 

"Wait?  Without  doubt,  I  will  wait  all  the  night;  but 
how  does  that  affect  my  case?" 

The  twilight  gathered  close,  but  the  young  moon  was 
riding  high  over  the  plain  and  showed  the  two  men  faintly 
to  each  other. 

332 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  THE  CHURCH 

"Look  you,"  said  the  priest.  "You  make  much  of 
your  four  thousand  francs,  got  I  know  not  by  what  scan- 
dalous means  — " 

"Nor  need  know!"  Trillon  could  not  refrain  from  an 
impish  laugh. 

"Eh,  well,"  —  the  inflection  showed  anger.  "You 
have  a  little  money  now,  I  grant  it;  but  in  a  week  you  will 
be  poor  again.  Who  are  you  that  I  should  trust  to  you 
the  soul  of  a  girl  who  plainly  cannot  take  care  of  herself?" 

"The  more  reason  that  I  should  step  in.  But  who  are 
you,  to  take  upon  yourself  so  entirely  the  welfare  of  a  girl 
who  is  a  stranger  to  you?" 

Then  an  odd  thing  happened,  and  yet  it  was  no  more 
odd  than  that  the  priest  kept  silence,  not  at  once  finding 
an  answer  that  pleased  him;  and  into  that  pause,  Trillon, 
with  a  curious  sort  of  instinct  that  crept  over  him  and 
served  him  well  now  and  then  at  critical  moments  — 
though  as  often  again  it  failed  —  read  intricate  meanings. 

Said  Father  Gougoulin:  "I  have  never  thought  there 
was  need  to  go  into  the  matter.  I  have  persisted  through 
a  desire  to  give  peace  to  the  soul  of  Madaleno  Borel,  the 
elder.  A  dying  woman's  wish  is  not  lightly  set  aside." 

"And  so,  for  her  whim,  you  would  sacrifice  the  happiness 
of  two?"  asked  Trillon,  more  seriously  than  he  was  wont 
to  speak. 

"A  whim?"  cried  the  priest.  "It  had  been  her  one 
hope  for  years." 

"Why?"  asked  Trillon  curtly. 

He  could  see  that  the  cure"  shrugged:  "Is  it  so  unnatural 
that  parents  should  take  that  stand — ?" 

333 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

He  would  have  said  more,  but  Trillon  interrupted:  "I 
think  it  is.  It  was  never  the  wish  of  Borel  himself." 

"The  girl  had  no  dowry,"  said  the  priest  curtly. 

"Sarnipabieunet  I  lose  patience.  I  have  been  over 
that  ground  like  a  horse  in  a  treadmill.  If  there  is  no 
getting  the  truth  out  of  you  — " 

"The  truth,"  said  Father  Gougoulin,  "is  that  Made- 
loun  is  dancing  the  jarandoulo  up  there  at  the  wedding; 
and  is  ripe  and  ready  to  take  any  swain  that  offers,  once 
you  are  out  of  the  way;  and  the  more  for  that  reason  do 
I  think  it  not  expedient  for  her  to  marry  at  all." 

"Be  still!"  thundered  Trillon.  "I  have  small  cause 
to  respect  your  robe;  but  when  you  speak  with  a  dirty 
tongue  — " 

The  priest  put  out  deprecatory  hands.  He  was  won- 
dering hard  hi  his  sodden  brain  how  he  was  ever  to  be  rid 
of  the  fellow.  "Look  you,"  said  he,  "I  will  stretch  a 
point.  I  will  tell  you  something  of  the  true  reason. 
Madeloun  was  early  destined  by  her  mother  for  the  con- 
vent by  way  of  expiation  — " 

So  far  he  had  got  when  he  felt  Trillon's  eyes  upon  him, 
fairly  burning  through  the  darkness.  His  words  might 
seem  strangely  irrelevant:  "And  why  is  it,  if  one  may  ask, 
that  you  were  left  in  this  place  to  rot  some  thirty  years 
ago?  Such  a  thing  does  not  happen  without  cause. 
And  are  we  to  suppose  that  immediate  reform  followed 
your  transfer?" 

The  priest's  hands  were  still  stretched  before  him,  and 
he  moved  his  fingers  incessantly  and  without  purpose  — 
there  was  light  enough  to  show  that. 

334 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  THE  CHURCH 

Trillon  waited  long  but  had  no  answer.  At  last  he 
said:  "I  wonder  whether  the  joy  of  killing  you  would 
make  up  for  Madeloun's  distress?" 

As  the  cure"  started  back,  Trillon  caught  at  his  sash  and 
so  held  him.  He  himself  found  it  strange  how  old  mem- 
ories leaped  into  significance,  and  half  suspicions  came 
to  be  full  evidence,  until  the  truth  shone  upon  him  as 
clear  and  incontrovertible  in  his  own  mind  as  the  moon 
in  the  sky. 

"No,  I  shall  not  kill  you.  I  shall  merely  make  you  do 
what  I  want.  You  thought  to  trap  me  to-night,  and  you 
have  walked  into  the  noose  finely.  I  interpret  your  words, 
and  still  more  your  silence,  to  mean  that  Madeloun  is  not 
the  daughter  of  Auzias.  Whose  —  it  is  better  not  to  ask. 
Eh,  well  —  who  cares?  But  the  fact  leaves  her  free  to 
roam  the  world  with  me  —  if  she  will.  And  she  shall  be 
put  to  the  test  before  long  .  .  .  No,  I  will  not  denounce 
you  .  .  ." 

"Who  would  believe  such  a  monstrous  assertion  on  the 
lips  of  a  vagabond?"  said  Gougoulin  hoarsely. 

"The  village,  I  have  no  doubt — "  Trillon  was  quite 
unperturbed.  "And  I  likewise  have  no  doubt  it  would 
be  enough  to  get  you  unfrocked." 

"Madness  —  madness  — "  was  the  sacerdotal  murmur. 

"I  ask  nothing  of  you,"  urged  Trillon  gently,  " — or 
very  little.  Withdraw  your  objection  and  put  it  hi  writ- 
ing. For  Madeloun's  sake  —  hein?" 

The  old  man  uttered  inarticulate  protests,  vain  words; 
but  it  was  evident  that  his  nerve  was  broken.  His  past  life 
had  not  been  conducive  to  any  great  moral  effort  in  a  crisis. 

335 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

"Come,"  said  Trillon,  "we  will  let  the  dead  rest;  but 
if  there  is  any  expiating  to  be  done,  you  shall  do  it  —  not 
Madeloun.  It's  easy  enough  for  you  to  add  a  few  more 
prayers — a  few  penances  .  .  .  Give  me  a  thing  to  show  the 
girl  and  set  her  conscience  at  peace,  and  I  leave  you  alone 
after  to-night.  You  shall  eat  and  drink  here  twenty 
years  more  for  all  my  interference.  But  if  not  — " 

It  seemed  that  Gougoulin  had  no  desire  to  hear  the 
converse.  The  very  droop  of  his  sash  in  Trillon's  hand 
was  compliant. 

Trillon  held  it  a  moment,  then  he  dropped  it  with 
disgust:  "You  are  a  gross  old  man.  I  will  be  finished 
with  you  quickly;  for  I  have  still  much  business  to  do 
to-night." 

And  what  happened  thereafter  need  not  be  told  at  this 
time. 


336 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

A  LITTLE  DRAMA  IN  THE  PLACE 

THEY  said  in  Castelar  that  same  night  that  Madeloun's 
heart  was  as  light  as  her  heels.  None  among  them  had 
any  idea  of  the  anger  that  burned  in  her  cheeks  and 
lent  her  grace  for  the  jarandoulo. 

The  wedding-party  was  too  large  to  dance  within  doors; 
and  as  a  fitting  conclusion  to  the  solemnity  and  the  feast- 
ing and  the  various  other  accompaniments  of  a  new  step 
in  life,  they  adjourned  to  pass  the  evening  and  perhaps 
the  night  in  the  Place  du  Connetable  de  Montferrand. 
Oh,  they  were  all  there,  Jano-Mario  in  a  skirt  and  fichu 
of  lavender  silk  that  her  grandmother  had  worn  at  such 
festivities,  Nerto  hi  a  yellow  cotton  print  from  Marseilles, 
and  all  the  other  village  girls  tricked  out  like  butterflies. 
And  the  young  men,  quarrymen,  shepherds,  farmers, 
hatless  and  collarless,  with  sashes  of  red  and  blue  and 
yellow,  and  sandals  light  on  the  feet  —  they  left  little  to 
be  desired  for  the  spreading  of  sport  and  mirth.  The 
mayor  had  swung  the  big  tricolour  from  the  town-hall, 
and  had  lent  even  the  council- chamber  of  this  august 
building  for  the  laying  out  of  food.  And  the  music  was 

337 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

pipe  and  tambourin,  of  course  —  how  else  should  one 
dance  in  Provence?  And  when  weariness  settled  for  a 
time  on  the  company,  then  the  blind  fiddler,  who  had 
been  led  that  morning  all  the  way  from  Fontvieille,  came 
into  his  own,  and  played  sweet  old  airs  of  the  follies  and 
joys  of  love  until  the  maidens  drooped  their  eyes  with 
melancholy,  and  the  young  men  clamoured  again  for  the 
dance,  or  choked  down  the  lumps  in  their  throats  with 
gay  cries  of,  "Snail — snail  —  come  out  of  your  shell, 
little  monk";  or  teased  the  girls  because  they  were  not  so 
pretty  as  the  lasses  of  Sant  Roumie",  or  so  hard-working  as 
the  damsels  of  Cavaioun  ...  It  was  cool  enough  for  the 
dancers  on  the  terrace  above  the  high  rock;  and  warm 
and  light  within  the  H6tel  de  Ville  for  those  who  talked 
of  autumn  chill  and  poured  good  wine  into  their  marrows. 
And  among  these  was  Auzias,  drowsy  and  content,  having 
complained  away  his  grievances  and  talked  out  the 
thoughts  of  his  heart  .  .  .  And  because  lamps  were  few, 
there  were  rows  of  candles  on  the  window  sills  within;  and 
without,  in  the  still  air,  hung  the  broad  flames  of  torches, 
and  swept  into  darkness  the  pale  light  of  the  high  moon. 

Madeloun  had  to  put  up  with  some  teasing;  and  it 
fanned  the  heat  of  her  strong  wrath  against  Trillon. 

It  was  perhaps  a  jealous  girl  without  a  sweetheart  who 
reminded  her  that  her  man  ought  to  be  there  on  that 
occasion. 

"To  be  sure,"  said  Madeloun,  "and  no  doubt  he  will 
come  and  fetch  me  if  I  stay  long  enough.  But  if  a  girl 
cannot  be  free,  because  she  is  fianceV  —  she  concluded 
with  a  shrug. 

338 


A   LITTLE  DRAMA   IN   THE  PLACE 

To  others  she  gave  elaborate  excuses  and  explanations, 
wondering  at  the  fertility  of  her  own  invention,  and  by  no 
means  recognizing  it  as  the  handiwork  of  the  sun.  But 
she  was  never  sorry  to  turn  to  other  matters;  and  evinced 
much  interest  in  the  village  gossip,  which  at  that  time 
consisted  largely  of  speculation  about  the  movements  of  a 
mysterious  old  man,  who  had  put  up  at  the  Cabro,  d'Or 
the  preceding  night,  and  had  departed  for  Aries,  or  fur- 
ther, that  same  afternoon.  Be  sure,  they  did  not  forget 
to  tell  her  —  the  women  —  what  their  men  had  revealed 
to  them  upon  coming  home  from  the  Emperor  of  the  East, 
in  regard  to  the  mysterious  conference  of  Trillon  with  the 
stranger.  She  could  but  pretend  to  know  all  about  the 
affair,  and  refuse  to  give  enlightenment  for  the  present; 
but  she  worked  her  wits  hard  and  could  draw  no  more 
conclusion  than  they. 

And  while  the  dancing  was  on,  she  denied  herself  to 
no  swain.  Later,  when  the  fun  grew  faster  and  more 
boisterous,  it  was  generally  Ramoun  or  Peire,  or  both, 
who  had  hand  of  hers.  They  led  her  between  them 
through  the  intricacies  of  the  farandoulo,  to  the  immense 
amusement  of  all  onlookers. 

She  was  in  full  rebellion  that  night,  and  she  gave  herself 
up  freely  to  the  joy  of  the  moment.  When  the  elder 
women  sought  occasion  now  and  then  to  draw  her  aside 
for  a  whispered  warning,  she  turned  an  impatient  ear, 
and  acted  more  madly  than  before.  Emilio  from  her 
corner,  where  she  sat  encompassed  with  sleeping  children, 
sent  her  many  a  black  and  reproachful  glance,  but  none 
reached  her  notice.  Even  the  slow-going  Jduse  remarked 

339 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

at  one  point:  "There  would  be  no  harm  in  your  going 
home  to  bed,  Madaleno." 

She  was  leaning  near  the  door  then,  letting  Ramoun 
fan  her  with  an  old  newspaper  that  he  had  found. 

"Eh,  eh,"  said  Borel,  turning  querulously  in  his  chair, 
"it's  myself  that  would  like  to  go  home  to  bed  —  to  a 
proper  bed  at  the  Cabro  d'Or."  He  was  not  aware  that 
he  had  spoken  loud  enough  to  be  overheard;  but  neigh- 
bours have  long  ears.  Jduse  pretended  to  laugh  as  he 
looked  round  him:  "I  always  said  you  and  Madeloun 
would  soon  be  tired  of  your  gypsying  at  the  Pit  of  Artaban. 
The  sooner  you  come  back  and  turn  Christian  the 
better." 

"I  am  not  tired  of  it!"  flashed  Madeloun,  careless  who 
heard.  "  And  I  am  not  coming  back  to  turn  Christian  — 

Luckily  for  her  the  tambourin  struck  up,  and  Peire 
came  to  fetch  her  for  the  last  dance;  and  so  her  mad 
utterance  was  lost  in  a  confusion  of  interest.  Ramoun 
would  not  be  shaken  off;  and  it  happened  again  that  the 
two  of  them  had  her  between  them.  It  was  a  positive 
scandal,  went  the  buzz  of  village  talk,  the  way  all  three  of 
them  looked  as  if  they  were  enjoying  themselves,  when  — 

When  the  ghostly  horseman,  who  through  the  din  had 
managed  to  ride  up  the  village  street  without  a  sound, 
was  suddenly  reining  his  steed  among  the  crowd;  and 
there  was  kicking  and  striking  out  of  sparks  on  the  cob- 
bles. People  scattered,  children  were  awakened  rudely 
and  screamed,  the  tambourin  and  the  dancing  stopped 
together,  though  the  pipe  went  on  for  a  bar  or  two,  hang- 
ing forlornly  in  mid-air,  unaccompanied.  So  sudden  was 

340 


A   LITTLE  DRAMA   IN  THE  PLACE 

the  apparition  that  it  was  not  until  some  while  after  that 
it  dawned  upon  the  slower- witted  that  this  was  no  ghostly 
affair,  but  Trillon  on  his  white  mule. 

It  must  have  been  Madeloun's  conscience  that  made 
her  shrink  with  a  little  scream  behind  her  taller  companion. 

Trillon  said  nothing,  but  he  held  the  entire  crowd  in 
expectation  of  what  he  would  do. 

It  was  Ramoun  who  broke  silence,  saying  with  a  mon- 
key-grimace: "Well,  monsieur,  do  you  mean  to  chew  us 
all  up  for  our  little  pleasures?" 

Trillon  made  no  answer,  but  pushed  his  beast  forward 
so  that  Ramoun  was  threatened  with  overthrow.  He 
suddenly  reached  out  and  caught  the  bridle,  trying  to 
drag  the  animal  down  to  the  stones.  There  was  a  shrill 
cry  from  somewhere,  but  Trillon  did  not  speak  or  change 
his  expression.  What  he  did  to  the  animal  none  saw; 
but  the  mule  rose  suddenly  on  his  hind  legs,  the  shepherd 
was  dragged,  entangled,  and  thrown,  and  fell  cursing 
with  a  gleam  of  steel  in  his  hand,  as  Madeloun  rushed 
forward  to  fling  herself  in  the  way.  But  it  was  Peire 
who  was  quicker  and  turned  the  furious  hand;  and  even 
so,  he  was  more  angry  than  Ramoun. 

"It's  a  pretty  return  she  makes  you,"  he  said  —  "trying 
to  save  you  from  the  death  you  have  earned.  Have  you 
told  her  how  you  offered  to  throw  her  away  with  a  cast 
of  the  dice?" 

There  was  a  confused  murmur  of,  "What?  What?" 
and  ejaculations.  People  pressed  forward,  forgetting 
their  previous  fear  of  the  mule.  Little  dramas  such  as 
this  are  the  breath  of  life  in  the  nostrils  of  Castelar. 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

Trillon  made  no  answer  beyond  turning  his  steady  look 
from  Madeloun  to  Peire. 

"It  is  so  true,"  said  Peire  passionately,  "that  I  call 
upon  you  here,  before  all  the  town,  to  deny  it  if  you  dare. 
And  if  you  say  no,  I  will  kill  you  and  send  you  to  hell 
for  a  liar!" 

Here  several  men  deemed  it  wise  to  lay  hands  upon  the 
orator.  Two  or  three  others  had  already  seized  Ramoun, 
got  him  to  his  feet,  steadied  him,  and  were  keeping  him 
within  bounds. 

One  woman  shrieked  hysterically,  "Call  the  guard!" 
while,  indeed,  this  official  was  an  interested  spectator  all 
the  time,  if  not  so  active  a  worker  as  might  have  been 
anticipated. 

Suddenly,  Madeloun  had  uncovered  her  face,  and  was 
looking  up  at  her  man;  and  he  in  turn  was  looking  down 
at  her. 

"Is  that  true?"  she  asked. 

She  fancied,  but  was  not  sure,  that  he  nodded  slightly. 

"True  that  you  were  willing  to  gamble  for  me  —  to 
risk  all  —  everything  —  on  one  throw  of  the  dice?" 

There  could  be  no  doubt  about  it  this  time;  he  nodded, 
and  more  than  once. 

A  hiss  and  mumble  of  some  strong  emotion  went  through 
the  crowd.  One  or  two  active  citizens  seized  Trillon's 
bridle.  It  seemed  as  if  there  might  be  a  riot.  The 
mayor  pricked  out  with  sweat,  wondering  how  he  ought 
to  interfere;  and  the  guard  retreated  behind  a  pillar  of  the 
church,  whence  he  could  watch  comfortably  until  such  time 
as  the  arrested  persons  should  be  turned  over  to  his  hands. 

342 


A   LITTLE  DRAMA   IN  THE  PLACE 

Madeloun  covered  her  face  again,  in  a  silence  that  for 
her  meant  more  than  tears. 

The  murmur  grew,  and  there  was  a  shuffling  of  people 
back  and  forth.  The  mule  became  restive  and  played 
the  high-spirited  charger,  causing  some  alarm  among 
those  that  held  his  bridle.  Then  there  fell  a  hush  upon 
the  square  because  everybody  perceived  that  Trillon  was 
about  to  speak. 

"I  won,"  he  said.  "Remember  that  I  won."  And 
that  was  all. 

Madeloun  looked  up  again,  magnificent  in  her  wrath, 
as  thought  more  than  one  youth  that  beheld  her. 

"No,"  she  said,  and  lifted  her  arm  in  denunciation, 
"you  did  not  win!  You  shall  not  win!  Never,  so  help 
me  God  and  the  Holy  Virgin  — " 

What  happened  then  —  ah,  that  was  what  Castelar 
never  was  able  to  piece  together,  or  to  make  out  to  its  own 
complete  satisfaction.  There  had  been  a  whirl  and  a 
great  kicking  about  of  hoofs  and  a  scream ;  and  the  square 
was  suddenly  empty  of  mule  and  rider,  and  full  of  people 
running  about  and  asking  foolish  questions.  Even  the 
guard  came  out  from  the  shadow  of  the  church  and  joined 
in  the  hurly-burly.  Incidentally  —  after  some  moments 
of  agitation  —  it  was  discovered  that  Madaleno  Borel 
was  also  away. 

In  the  end,  the  weaker  ones,  who  in  the  press  had  been 
crowded  against  the  outer  wall,  had  the  best  of  the  situa- 
tion. To  be  sure,  they  could  see  nothing  for  the  flare  of 
the  torches  about  them;  and  the  young  moon  shed  no 
light  into  the  deeps  of  the  valley.  But  they  had  only  to 

343 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

turn  about  to  follow  with  their  ears  the  thunder  of  hoofs 
on  the  Roman  road.  Lively  enough  was  Balm  after 
some  days  of  high  feeding;  and  his  downward  progress 
—  balin-balant  —  was  marked  by  rattles  and  showers  of 
small  stones. 

Long  and  anxiously  they  listened  in  momentary  antici- 
pation of  a  crash,  until  in  the  hush  the  sound  grew  faint 
as  an  echo;  and  when  this  gave  way  to  the  utter  silence  of 
the  night,  then  Castelar,  as  one  man,  heaved  a  great  sigh. 


344 


CHAPTER  XL 

BALIN-BALANT 

Bdin-Balant — from  side  to  side — went  the  steed, 
swaying  and  plunging  through  the  night.  Balin-Balant — 
that  wras  his  name;  and  well  he  earned  it  on  this  great 
occasion  of  his  life. 

With  silence  between  them  —  a  silence  as  close  as  the 
embrace  that  held  them  as  one  and  left  the  mule  to  his 
own  madness  or  discretion  —  they  rode  down  into  the 
plains.  And  when,  looking  over  his  shoulder,  Trillon 
perceived  the  flare  of  Castelar  as  little  more  than  a  con- 
stellation in  the  sky,  he  gave  a  whoop  of  joy,  and  urged 
the  flying  beast,  which  even  then  raised  a  cloud  of  dust 
like  a  mist  about  them.  And  so  they  were  whirled  through 
the  darkness  of  the  plains  between  the  dense  black  cypresses 
that  now  and  again  shot  up  at  the  one  side  or  the  other,  like 
gigantic  demoniac  figures  or  sentries  to  turn  them  back. 

"Never,  so  help  me  God,"  swore  the  man  —  "God  and 
the  Holy  Virgin,  will  I  part  from  Trillon  again  until  I  lay 
a  wreath  on  his  grave  and  look  about  me  for  another  hus- 
band equally  good!  Was  that  what  you  would  say, 
Madeloun?  By  all  that  is  holy,  you  spoke  truth!" 

345 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

She  lay  still  in  his  arms  and  would  not  respond  to  his 
kisses.  "And  if  I  satisfy  you  to-morrow?"  he  urged. 
"If  I  satisfy  you  on  every  point?" 

She  stirred  a  little  then.  "It  is  always  to-morrow  with 
you,  Trillon,"  she  said.  He  scarcely  made  out  her  words 
for  the  pounding  of  the  hoofs  on  the  road. 

But  when  he  understood,  he  laughed  long  and  loud: 
"No  —  you  are  wrong!  This  is  the  one  time.  To-day 
is  to-day.  And  since  that  is  so,  you  shall  be  satisfied  to- 
night. Ask." 

She  roused  herself  a  little:  "Where  are  we  going?" 

"Straight  to  Marseilles.  We  shall  be  there  with  the 
dawn,  or  not  many  hours  after,  if  Balin-Balant  holds  out 
to  Aries." 

"And  then?" 

"South  America,  —  any  place  in  the  world,  my 
child!" 

She  shivered  and  drew  away  a  little : "  But  how  —  how  ?  " 

"I  am  rich!"  The  words  floated  far  into  the  night. 
"Rich!  — rich!" 

She  was  more  frightened  than  before:  "But  how? 
Have  you  been  —  ?"  she  could  not  bring  out  the  name  of 
the  thing  that  she  dreaded. 

"No,"  said  he,  "whatever  you  mean.  But  I  have  sold 
the  mas  for  four  thousand  francs." 

She  caught  her  breath:  "For — ?" 

"For  four  thousand  francs!  Four  thousand  francs! 
Say  it  once  —  then  perhaps  you  will  believe  it.  I  have 
the  paper  in  my  pocket;  and  I  am  to  get  the  money  in 
Marseilles.  And  there  is  some  silver  besides." 

346 


BALIN-BALANT 

He  freed  one  hand,  to  make  sure  of  the  jingle  of  coin  in 
his  pocket. 

"Four  thousand  francs!"  she  repeated  in  a  low  voice, 
but  did  not  yet  believe. 

"Shall  I  tell  you  why?"  he  cried  exultantly.  "It  was 
because  I  would  dig  that  well.  Did  you  ever  know  my 
luck  to  fail?  Eh,  then,  the  well  turns  out  to  be  the  ruins 
of  a  temple  to  some  heathen  god — negre-de-DUu,  I  forget 
the  name,  but  I  believe  it  was  a  woman!  And  so  it  was 
all  bought  up  by  a  great  wise  man,  —  an  antiquary,  if 
you  know  what  that  is  —  he  told  me.  And  his  name  — 
you  shall  see  that  on  the  cheque  to-morrow;  but  he  is  a 
chevalier  d'honneur,  so  you  need  have  no  doubts  of  his 
money.  But  if  you  had,  and  they  were  just,  and  this 
paper  were  nothing,  I  could  get  more,  now  that  I  have  you 
and  would  set  my  mind  to  it,  my  pretty  little  hedge-queen." 

"I  shall  be  a  hedge-queen  sure  enough  when  all  this  is 
spent,"  said  she,  but  with  surprisingly  little  distress. 
And  she  even  reached  up  and  clasped  him  about  the  neck. 

"But  how  shall  I  ever  forgive  myself,"  she  continued 
plaintively,  "for  running  away  like  this — ?" 

"Forgive  yourself?"  said  he.  "With  Father  Gou- 
goulin's  letter  of  recommendation  here  in  my  pocket? 
Forgive  yourself?  When  here  is  his  permission  as  safe 
and  as  fast  as  you  yourself?  Rest  with  that,  and  to- 
morrow you  shall  know  more." 

Thereupon  she  classed  the  whole  affair  among  miracles 
of  a  high  order,  and  broke  down  and  wept  with  joy. 

"Look  now,"  said  he,  when  he  thought  it  time  for  her 
to  stop.  "Have  you  nothing  more  to  ask ?" 

347 


THE  GOLDEN  HAWK 

"My  father  —  what  of  him?" 

"He  is  to  go  back  to  a  civilized  bed  in  a  proper  room, 
with  the  sheep  and  the  fowls  and  the  cart  and  the  supplies 
at  the  windmill  for  a  dowry;  and  enough  it  will  be  to  pro- 
vide him  with  comfortable  maintenance  at  the  Cabro  d'Or 
for  the  rest  of  his  days.  I  saw  to  that.  Oh,  I  laid  my 
plans  properly.  I  understood  that  this  was  the  only 
way  — " 

"Since  when?"  she  interrupted. 

"Since  this  afternoon,  when  the  sale  was  completed 
before  the  notary,"  said  he,  unabashed.  "And  I  carried 
it  out  on  the  moment  .  .  .  Ah,  I  knew  your  goings-on 
at  the  wedding,  believe  me.  And  now  I  have  you  netted 
fast."  He  whirled  his  thought  about:  "Are  you  sorry? 
Shall  I  take  you  back?" 

Then  she  was  sweet:  "No.  If  we  must  be  beggars 
always  —  still  I  am  glad." 

" Eh,  well,"  said  he,  "it  will  not  last  too  long  even  at  the 
worst,  for  in  time  we  shall  come  into  the  sausage-shop  of 
Avignon,  there  is  no  doubt,  and  after  that  .  .  .  To-day 
is  to-day  .  .  ." 

And  so  they  rode  forth  in  the  darkness,  away  from  that 
grim  rum  on  the  height,  built  by  men  who  achieved  their 
purpose  a  thousand  years  ago,  out  into  the  world  that  is 
a-making  to-day.  And  everywhere  they  will  have  sun- 
shine and  love  and  hope;  and  what  more  do  men  need? 

Long  and  foolish  had  been  his  first  flight,  the  yellow 
hawk;  but  it  was  in  quest  of  the  mate,  golden  in  his  eyes, 
as  golden  as  any  might  be.  I  doubt  not  that  he  will  swoop 
again,  with  what  success  no  man  can  tell;  but  he  has  faith 

348 


BALIN-BALANT 

boundless  in  his  unswerving  luck.  It  may  win  him  place 
and  fortune  among  men;  it  may  do  no  more  than  help 
him  to  prune  to  the  best  advantage  sadly-clipped  feathers. 
This  will  appear  as  the  three  Sisters  weave  the  pattern  of 
their  web.  But  whether  he  end  as  ruler  of  a  new  state  in 
South  America,  or  as  sausage-seller  by  the  banks  of  the 
Rhone,  his  will  be  always  the  flight  of  adventure,  for  he 
will  never  shrink  from  rising  straight  into  the  sun  of  his 
desire. 

"  Balin-balant — they  will  go  swinging  through  the  world, 
up  to  the  peaks  of  joy,  down  into  the  vales  of  tribulation, 
abroad  in  the  winds  of  adventure,  and  when  they  have 
overpassed  the  sunlit  fields  of  youth,  and  are  come  into 
the  sober  land  of  age,  may  peace  be  with  them  —  and 
again  peace! 


THE    END 


349 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000128954     5 


